


Hunger

by EachPeachPearPlum



Series: Secrets 'verse [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Break Up, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Heartbreak, Love, M/M, Magic Revealed, Magical Accidents, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 242,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Worst Kept Secrets.</p><p>In which Lancelot fails miserably to mind his own business, things fall apart, Camelot is full of far more secrets than anyone could have guessed, crops die in mildly mysterious circumstances, Morgana and Morgause are suspiciously absent, and Merlin makes a number of really quite monumental mistakes.</p><p>(Unlike the first one, this is just as angsty as the summary says, but almost everyone lives happily ever after anyway)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I really want help with the tags, because I don't have any idea. Other than that, this is long and sprawling and not quite complete, but hopefully will be in not all that long. Chapters to be added every now and again, hopefully once a month.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it,
> 
> Peach

Merlin didn’t expect, when he first came to Camelot, to fall in love, not either of the times it happened. He didn’t expect to save the life of the king’s son and be rewarded with indentured servitude. He didn’t expect the selfish, arrogant, gorgeous prat to have anything substantial to his character, didn’t anticipate becoming his friend, risking exposure and execution to keep him alive, didn’t think the idiot would ever embed himself so thoroughly in Merlin’s thoughts and dreams and heart.

He wasn’t prepared for acceptance, either, when people inevitably found him out. He had spent too long listening to his mother, Gaius, Kilgarrah, impress upon him the importance of secrecy to ever believe he could let people know what he is. That people would like or trust him enough not to care that he is, by official declaration, evil, could never have crossed his mind.

But they do. Lance, Sir Leon, Arthur, Gwaine.

Of all the utterly unpredictable things that have happened since he left his home, Gwaine is one of the most unlikely.

Will would have liked Gwaine, he knows, more than he could ever have liked Arthur. He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand why his only friend as a child died to save the crown prince of a different land, but it certainly wasn’t because he liked him. Will respected Arthur, maybe, at the end, but no man gives his life because he respects someone. Love, friendship, honour, vows; Merlin knows these to be reasons to die for someone, but respect? Perhaps Will just knew Merlin would never have forgiven him if he could have done something and hadn’t.

Gwaine, though, would have got on with Will like a house on fire. Merlin can almost see the pair of them, drinking and carousing, getting into trouble and dragging him down with them (although, of course, they have both done more than their fair share of rescuing him from troubles of entirely his own making).

At least, they’d have gotten on until Will realised he was sleeping with Gwaine, at which point things would have turned very sour, very quickly. It wouldn’t have been jealousy, because Will had never wanted Merlin like that, and Merlin had never wanted Will either. Will’s need to protect Merlin had only ever been born of the affection of friends so close they were practically brothers, but it was strong enough that he could never have really approved of Gwaine as anything more than Merlin’s friend. And maybe Merlin would have considered listening to him, because Will had never led him wrong before.

Merlin still misses him, still sees his face each time someone new learns of his magic and he has to take responsibility for him or her staying alive.

Hunith would like Gwaine, too. Maybe not at first, but he would charm her as he charms almost everyone. She might even be happy to let him steal away her only son, because while she had been able to see from the beginning how Merlin feels for Arthur, she would also be able to see that Gwaine does more than anyone else in keeping Merlin sane, more than Merlin has any right to expect.

It is a pity they will probably never meet.

He loves living in Camelot, loves all the amazing, unexpected, terrible things that have happened here, loves his friends and _loves_ his prince, but sometimes he wishes he’d never left home.

X

Their first real argument – if that is indeed what it is – happens when they have been together about a month, and is almost entirely Gwaine’s fault (though no two people would agree on precisely why he is to blame).

“You know,” Merlin says to Gwaine in their room, one day after he finds him chatting with Bonnie just a little longer than was required to buy drinks, “I don’t mind if you like that barmaid.”

It is a decidedly peculiar thing for Merlin to tell him, because Gwaine has never for a moment thought that Merlin doesn’t want him to befriend people. He tells him so, adding, “Of course I like her, anyway. She’s a friend.”

“Have you ever...” Merlin trails off, but Gwaine knows how the sentence ends.

“Have I ever slept with her?” Merlin has never once asked Gwaine about any of the people he has slept with in the past, and the fact that he is doing so now makes him more than a little uncomfortable, but saying that he doesn’t want to answer will be taken as a yes. “No, Merlin. Her father is scary as anything, and I don’t sleep with my friends.”

“You sleep with me.”

Well, okay, that is a fair point, and not one Gwaine can explain away. Or, rather, not one that he wants to explain to Merlin, though it would take only three words to do so. Instead, he fidgets slightly in his chair and says, “Why are you asking me about this?”

Merlin blinks at him, looking slightly like he has just been chided. “Sorry. I didn’t know that I wasn’t supposed to.”

There are some conversations Gwaine has with Merlin that are very straightforward and simple, and others that leave him wondering why he is even bothering to find out what he is talking about and why; this is turning pretty quickly into one of the latter. “It isn’t that you’re not supposed to, Merlin. You can ask me anything; you know that. But this isn’t something you’ve wanted to know about before.”

“Yes, well, she likes you.”

“We’ve just established that Bonnie and I are friends. I’d be a little upset if she didn’t.” Yep, here they are, going around in circles, and Gwaine has absolutely no idea why.

“No, she _likes you_ likes you.”

Well, that clarifies matters; it’s one of those wonderful conversations eight years olds have. Gwaine is pretty sure it isn’t true, and even if it is he doesn’t understand why Merlin is telling him it. “I don’t know where you’re going with this anymore,” he says, then amends, “Not sure I ever knew where this was going, actually.”

He gets an eye roll for that, as if he’s the one being foolish here, and Merlin says, “It’s just...I don’t mind.”

“You said that already, and I still don’t know what you mean by it.”

“I mean, if you want to go home with her one evening. Or bring her back here, I don’t mind. I can go somewhere else.”

Gwaine spends a moment feeling pleased that Merlin has finally said what he set out to say when he started the conversation, and then he realises what the actual words he used are. “Did you mean that how it sounded?” he asks, because he thinks he’s still misunderstanding Merlin, probably quite dramatically.

“Did it sound like I was saying you could sleep with her?” Merlin replies, sounding emotionally flat in a kind sort of way.

“Am I going to get yelled at if I say yes?”

“No,” Merlin laughs. “Why would I yell? That’s what I meant.”

Gwaine is surprised by how much this physically hurts, the reminder that Merlin doesn’t feel as strongly about him as he feels in return. Hurts, and makes him more than a little angry. “Why would you say that?” he says, and can hear how insulted he feels in his voice, how upset he is by the indifference with which Merlin is talking.

Merlin, apparently, cannot, since he answers the question seriously rather than apologising for what he’s just said. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck with me, or that I’m in your way if there’s someone else you want.”

“Is this you saying that you want to sleep with other people?” Gwaine asks, because that is the only interpretation of this that makes any sense to him at all; he can’t remember saying or doing anything that would suggest that he is in the slightest bit discontent with the way things are.

Merlin frowns, the confusion written across his face a perfect mirror of that Gwaine was feeling just minutes ago. “No, it isn’t. I’m happy with just you. It’s exactly what I said; I don’t want to repay all you’ve for me done by making you feel tied down. I know you aren’t used to being with just one person all the time, and I’d understand if you wanted...I don’t know, variety, or something.”

Gwaine stands up, wondering just where he has left his boots, because he does _not_ want to have this conversation anymore and he doesn’t think he can walk as far away as he knows he will want to in bare feet.

“Where are you going?” Merlin asks, clearly thrown off balance by Gwaine’s desire to be elsewhere, and be there quickly.

“What do you care, Merlin?” Gwaine sneers. “You’ve just given me permission to do whatever the hell I want.” He finds his left boot under a table, the right lying behind the door, and leaves before Merlin can say anything else to piss him off, waiting until he is out of the room and down the corridor before stopping to put them on.

X

He doesn’t speak to anyone other than the barmaids for the next couple of hours, and isn’t remotely sure how long Lancelot has been sitting next to him before he says anything.

“I thought you had stopped that,” he announces, and Gwaine figures he is talking about the remarkable number of empty tankards on the table before him.

He grunts disparagingly, but sort of answers anyway, because Lancelot, nosy bastard though he is, is a good friend most of the time. “Yeah, I did, too.”

“Have you at least had something to eat this evening?”

Seeing as Gwaine hadn’t even realised that it had become evening while he has been in the tavern, he thinks probably not. Some of his time-related confusion must be clear on his face, because Lancelot sighs and stands. “Stay here, I will be back in a moment. Do not let him go anywhere, will you, please, Leon?”

Gwaine turns to his other side as Lancelot walks up to the bar, where he sees Leon looking displeased with this request. “Where’s he going?” Gwaine asks him, and hears the way his voice slurs.

“To get you food, I would imagine. How long have you been here?”

“Not that long. Eight drinks long, maybe. Is that eight?” It seems to Gwaine that his tolerance for alcohol has decreased somewhat in the month or two he hasn’t been drinking as much, because it used to be he could handle twice as much without sounding anywhere near as stupid as he does now (and he knows he sounds stupid, even if he can’t stop it).

Leon counts the tankards then nods at him, smiling in slightly patronising amusement. “Not quite, no, but I suppose it’s close enough. Do you think that you should go home when you’ve eaten?”

“No!” Gwaine knows that comes out as a shout, but doesn’t care enough to tone it down. There’s a decent chance Merlin is in their room – because he doesn’t appear to be here with everyone else – and he is still far too irritated to talk to him.

“I’m sorry I asked. Are you going to get any louder if I ask why?”

“No,” Gwaine replies, slightly softer and, he thinks, rather cleverly, “But I’m not going to tell you, either.”

“Okay, then. I’ll just sit quietly and keep an eye on you until Lancelot gets back, shall I?” He mumbles something after this about how it really shouldn’t be his responsibility to babysit stubborn alcoholics. Gwaine would quite happily tell him that he doesn’t have to, only Percival has just arrived at the table with a number of drinks and he is preoccupied with making sure he gets the best one.

Leon looks relieved when Lancelot comes back a moment later. “Fantastic. He’s all yours, Lancelot.”

“Marvellous,” Lance replies, “I have ordered you some stew, Gwaine. They will bring it over in a minute.” He pauses, and then sighs. “Where did the drink come from?”

“Percival. You can’t have it. Yours is...somewhere.” Was being drunk always this tedious, he wonders. In his memory, it used to be far easier, far lighter, to always be slightly sloshed, but right now he just seems to be saying unintelligent things and not feeling any better whatsoever about the fact that he is engaged in an emotionally one-sided relationship with his best friend.

Lancelot stares at him rather than searching for his missing drink. “Is there any chance that you will tell me what the matter is?”

“Nothing’s the matter. I’m fine,” Gwaine lies, only to ruin it by laughing sceptically at his own statement.

“Right, then. You just eat, nice and quietly, and then when you have got some food in you, we can take you back to your room and you can sleep off whatever the problem is.”

Gwaine gives the same disbelieving laugh again. “Yeah, that’ll work.”

Bonnie, one of the causes of this freaking problem, sets a large bowl of stew in front of him and speaks softly to Lancelot, but not quite so softly that Gwaine can’t hear. “Are you going to take him out of here when he’s eaten? He’s been in here for hours and...well, he’s probably had enough.”

“Yes,” Lancelot answers. “If we had known he was here, we would probably have come earlier.”

Gwaine snorts and picks up his spoon, suddenly aware of how hungry he is. “And _you_ could have made me leave, Lancelot? I’m fine, anyway.”

Lancelot doesn’t reply, just smiles at Bonnie, “Thank you. And sorry, I suppose.”

“Not a problem, Sir Lancelot. I hope he fixes whatever the difficulty with him and whoever his mystery person is.” Gwaine had thought that, because she hadn’t mentioned it in a while, Bonnie had dropped her theory that he was on a voyage of self-improvement to impress someone into sleeping with him, but apparently not. He doesn’t argue with her, though, because the stew really is incredibly good.

When he has finished, Gwaine stands – swaying very slightly – with the intention of heading to the bar for another bowl and possibly another pint as well. Lancelot, it seems, has a different idea. “Come on. Let’s get you back, shall we?”

“’M happy here, actually.” He tries and fails to fight off the grip Lance has on his arm, and reluctantly allows himself to be steered from the tavern.

In an impressive (for him) display of tact and intelligence, Lance waits until they are outside before playing what he presumably imagines to be his trump card. “Really, Gwaine. You know Merlin will be worried about you.”

Of course, it works somewhat less well than Lance probably hoped it would, in the light of recent circumstances.

“Like fuck he will,” Gwaine mutters, finally yanking himself free. “Merlin doesn’t give a shit where I am or what I do.”

“Of course he does not. That is why he is living with you, is it? Because he does not care about you at all?” Gwaine is too flummoxed to respond to this, because Lance is never sarcastic. It isn’t that Gwaine doesn’t think he deserves sarcasm sometimes (half the time, he knows he deserves far worse), but he was, until this moment, fairly certain Lancelot didn’t know how it worked. He follows when Lance chivvies him in the direction of the castle, but, on reaching a fork at which his room is one way and Lance’s the other, stops.

“Gwaine, I know you have been drinking, but you must know where your room is,” Lancelot tells him, heading to the right, only looking back when he realises Gwaine isn’t following.

“Know where it is. ’M not going there, though. Merlin’s there.”

Lance walks back to join him, his expression one of intense confusion. “Surely that is a good thing, no? I thought you were happy with him.”

“I am. Was. Am.” Gwaine can’t decide which tense he wants to be using. He has been happy with Merlin, and would still be, if Merlin weren’t such an _idiot_ sometimes. “Am,” he announces, finally, with a greater level of certainty. “He said-” He can’t actually believe he’s going to tell Lancelot – the only knight not to have hooked up with at least one person while they’ve been in Camelot and really not the person to ask about relationships, but the only person other than Arthur who knows about Gwaine and Merlin, and there is nothing on earth that could make Gwaine ask Arthur for advice – this, but apparently he is.

“What did he say?”

Okay, he is definitely talking about it, because Lancelot is helpful sometimes and he really wants to complain to someone, but he isn’t doing it here where anyone could walk past. “Can we go somewhere else? Your room?”

Even though Lancelot’s exasperation is almost palpable, he nods, pulling a key from his pocket as they walk down the left fork.

Gwaine is not quite as easy sitting on the floor (Lancelot, having lived a life no less nomadic than Gwaine’s own, hasn’t felt the need to secure extra furniture in the same way the rest of them have, most probably because he rarely has company) by the fire in Lancelot’s room as he would be in his own (were it not occupied by Merlin), but he is comfortable enough. Lancelot seems to have the same aversion to Pendragon colours that he himself has, though Gwaine suspects the reason the room is predominantly yellow is because he likes the colour rather than because he just wanted somewhere to hide from all the red.

“So,” he says, pouring Gwaine a large mug of water and rejecting the single chair in the room to sit on the floor next to him, “What did Merlin say that upset you, then?”

Gwaine knows how stupid a source of misery his next sentence is going to sound, but he says it anyway. “He told me I could sleep with other people.”

Lancelot blinks. “He what?”

Gwaine laughs, despite the fact that he is finding this all so very far from funny, because that was precisely what he thought when Merlin first said it. “Exactly. He, he said, wouldn’t mind if I wanted to go home with other people, or take other people home with me.”

“Right,” Lance replies with a small nod, then looks to be steeling himself for the rest of this conversation. A small part of Gwaine’s brain – the bit that isn’t entirely self-absorbed or obsessed with thoughts of Merlin – pities him a little; he’s pretty sure Lance is regretting volunteering to listen to his complaints, but he’s too good a person to try to back out now. “Do you – and I ask this in the nicest way possible, so please do not get angry with me – do you think he was trying to leave you?”

He isn’t really all that bothered by this assumption, because it was the first thing he thought when Merlin said it. “I asked. He was worried I was bored with him, thought I might like...‘variety’ was the word he used.” He makes a vague attempt at air quotes, lowering his hands quickly when Lancelot flinches at how close they are to his face.

“Okay. What did you do when he said that?”

“Left, obviously. Didn’t want to say something I’d regret.” Lancelot frowns disapprovingly at him, and Gwaine feels the need to be even more honest with him. “And, er...I might have shouted at him. Just a little. He asked where I was going, and I sort of suggested that it wasn’t any of his business.” The weight of Lance’s disapproval becomes too much and he breaks eye contact, staring instead at his feet, stretched out on the rug in front of him.

“You shouted at him and left, without any explanation whatsoever? Did you not think about how that would seem to him?”

Gwaine can quite honestly say that he didn’t, not in the slightest, because he was just a little more concerned with how it all seemed to him. In hindsight, that looks to be a mistake. “He’s going to think I’m with someone else, isn’t he?”

“He might, yes. If you go back now, and explain why you left, he will understand.” Gwaine shakes his head; the full explanation will require him to tell Merlin that he loves him, and he can’t. Or won’t, maybe, but either way the result is the same. Lancelot sighs, softly. “Why not, Gwaine?”

“Same reason you don’t tell Gwen how you feel. Neither of them wants to hear it.” He doesn’t explain that it is literally for the same reason that neither of them wants to know, but it hasn’t escaped his notice, and if he genuinely thought there was some way he could dispose of Arthur without getting caught, he would probably give it a go. As it is, even when out of his mind with drink, there’s no way he can imagine that wouldn’t seriously upset Merlin as well, so it really isn’t an option. “Look,” he says, trying to sound reasonable rather than confrontational, “Can I just stay here tonight, please? I don’t want to see him like this. Or him to see me, I mean. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Lancelot visibly weighs up the pros and cons of this suggestion before finally standing and opening a cupboard across the room from where Gwaine remains seated. “Fine. You can stay. For tonight only, and you are sleeping on the floor.”

“Didn’t think for a moment that I wouldn’t be,” Gwaine replies, mostly as a joke even though it’s true. He takes a stack of blankets from Lance and, with a greater level of seriousness, adds, “Thank you.”

“You would do the same for me,” Lancelot tells him, honest and determined, and Gwaine knows that for all he criticises Lance – mostly internally, but not always – he would, because when you needed him, Lancelot always came through. “Sleep, now, and you can fix things in the morning.”

He obeys, laying out the blankets on the rug next to the fire and curling up under them, running through the possible ways to explain this to Merlin in his head until sleep takes him.

X

Merlin doesn’t know what it was that he said that upset Gwaine, but he knows something did. He thinks about running after him to apologise, though he knows that an apology won’t cut it with Gwaine unless he knows what he is supposed to be sorry for.

What they have isn’t love. He wishes it was, because being with Gwaine is easy, makes him happy in a way he hasn’t thought possible since Freya died, but it isn’t. The only thing Merlin can say for certain about them is that they are together, exclusively so. And it isn’t like he was lying when he told Gwaine he didn’t want anyone else, not really, because even though he would say yes to anything Arthur asks of him, Arthur won’t ever ask anything of him, and he certainly won’t ask that. With Gwaine, who manages to be reliable despite his best attempts to prove he isn’t, that doesn’t even matter all that much; he has someone to turn to, someone who wants him, and that is so close to being enough that he doesn’t often notice that it isn’t.

Gwaine isn’t used to relationships, though, being with the same person consistently, night after night after night, and they have already lasted far longer than Merlin imagined they might. He thinks – and the thought scares him a little – that Gwaine will grow tired of him soon, move on to someone or someones else, and he really doesn’t think he can handle being alone again. His offer was an entirely selfish one, although not in the way Gwaine thought it was, because the only way he can see to keep Gwaine with him is to let him go a little.

He wonders, as he sits in Gwaine’s room by the fire, counting down the minutes until he has to return to work, where Gwaine has gone. Is he still in the castle, or in the city, or somewhere else entirely? He likes the woods, Merlin knows, says he likes how quiet they are but also how alive. Merlin had laughed when he first said that, and replied that Gwaine just liked all the hiding places they had found out there.

“Well, yes, those too,” Gwaine had answered. “But listen. Close your eyes, stop thinking so hard. Listen.”

Merlin obeys the voice in his memory, even though all he can really hear now is the soft crackle of the fire in its grate, the low hum of people living outside the window. He feels the possessive press of Gwaine’s hand on his side, the warmth of the sun, a soft breeze ruffling his hair. Hears the simple three note melody Gwaine had whistled to him, maybe, or to the woods in general, and senses the moment of stillness before something whistled back. A second bird picked up the tune, and a third, until Merlin understood what he meant by the woods being alive.

He remembers the awe in his voice as he had asked what they were, and the soft happiness in Gwaine’s as he had replied. “Don’t know what they’re called. My brother pointed them out to me when I was a kid. Saw them when we got here, wanted to show off a little. Not magic, I don’t think, or at least not human magic, but they’re really something, aren’t they?”

Merlin opens his eyes slowly, and rises from his chair, walking to the set of drawers at his side of Gwaine’s bed. He opens the second one down, pressing gently on the knot that releases the secret base – Gwaine paid for them to be built for him, because there is no other decent hiding place in the room – and pulls out his book, determined to find some way of recreating sounds from memory before Gwaine comes back. It won’t be an apology, so he won’t need to explain why he is offering it, but it will serve the same purpose.

He turns pages carefully, with the reverence such a text deserves, wondering how long he has, and where Gwaine has gone. He hopes the woods, but chances are he never made it that far. Chances are, Gwaine is drinking.

He pictures Gwaine talking to his friend the barmaid, flirting with her a little, like he usually does. Pictures him going further, catching her by the wrist as she hurries past and whirling her into his arms, whirling them into her bed and not leaving it until morning arrives.

His hand clenches involuntarily at the image and he puts the spell book away, not wanting to damage it. He has no time to waste on silly magics, anyway, when Arthur will be whining about his meal soon enough.

X

Leon is leaving Arthur’s room as Merlin arrives there, murmuring a goodbye, telling the prince of his plans to join the others for a drink or two. “Merlin,” he says in greeting and farewell both, smiling slightly as he holds the door open for him.

Merlin returns it, trying to work out how long he was lost in memories and the magic of mimicry and how much of an apology he owes Arthur for his lateness. He places Arthur’s meal tray on the table before him and closes the curtains on the dark, starless sky outside.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks, noticing as he does how pale Arthur looks, how the candles by the papers he is working on make the shadows under his eyes seem endless. “Not just my normal stuff, I mean. You look tired.”

“I’m fine, Merlin. Just do your job.” This has the tone of finality that suggests arguing will lead to him being told to shut up, _again_ , but that tone has never stopped him before.

It doesn’t now, either. “Are you sure? I don’t know that you’ve looked this terrible since Morgana.”

Arthur decides against the predicted response, apparently. “And you have never turned up to work looking rumpled and sleepless, have you, _Mer_ lin?”

This is certainly far more effective than telling Merlin to shut up, because it actually succeeds in rendering him speechless. He doesn’t know what Arthur means by it – surely he can’t be implying what he seems to be implying? – so he doesn’t really know how to reply. Saying nothing, he decides, is the best course of action, and he banks the fire and lays out Arthur’s nightclothes in silence.

“Thank you,” Arthur says when he is done, putting his papers to one side and pulling what Merlin imagines is now a cold plate of food towards him. “That will be all for today. Go join the others in the tavern; I’m sure that’s where you want to be.”

Merlin doesn’t disagree, because now that Lancelot and Gwaine are around, he is so easily accepted into the camaraderie that the knights share on their evenings out, and with the gentle fizz of alcohol in his blood and a warm bed to go back to, it feels like family. But showing up there only a few hours after telling Gwaine he can find someone else if he wants to isn’t what he wants to do. He doesn’t want to know if Gwaine picks someone else, doesn’t want to know who they are.

He doesn’t want to picture all the girls he has seen making eyes at Gwaine, all the men who have smiled casually at him across the room, the look in their eyes as lustful as that in Gwaine’s own. He doesn’t want to see the faces of everyone he has watched Gwaine walk out with in the past, before they were together, as he bids Arthur goodnight and makes his way to Gwaine’s room. Merlin hates feeling like he should knock before opening the door, even though he knows Gwaine would never bring someone back to the bed they share without warning him.

The images don’t leave him, though, as he sits fully clothed on the bed with his feet curled under him. It probably won’t be the barmaid, he thinks, because as much as Gwaine loves risking his life for little reason, he is not likely to do so for a woman. He wonders if Gwaine has chosen someone Merlin knows by name, someone Merlin will talk to in the days to come and hear about the night they spent with him, as he occasionally would before. He wonders if they are male or female, tall or short, slender or curved, beautiful or plain. He wonders if Gwaine is comparing them to him in his mind as he does whatever he does with them, if he will decide he likes them better after all.

It will be a woman, he thinks, after so long of just being with a man. Not too tall, or too thin, with big breasts, wide hips, and long blonde hair. She will be beautiful and willing, because who isn’t willing when Gwaine propositions them. Gwaine will tell her a joke, and he will find her laugh glorious, enchanting. She will let him charm her; persuade her into leaving the tavern and her friends and inviting him back to her chambers. The story Merlin is telling himself makes his stomach churn in a way that has him grateful he missed dinner, but he can’t stop. He can see it all playing out, like he’s standing in the room watching them; the way she blushes as Gwaine undresses her, the way his eyes light up when he sees her naked, all the ways Gwaine finds to entwine their bodies, keeping them both awake long into the night.

He wonders why the hell he thought telling Gwaine he didn’t mind was a good idea, why he ever thought for a second that he wouldn’t mind.

Mostly, though, Merlin just wonders how he is going to take it back without losing Gwaine entirely.

X

His musings and unpleasantly detailed imaginings are eventually interrupted by a gentle tapping, as though whoever is there isn’t sure he won’t be asleep and doesn’t want to wake him if he is. He is most definitely awake, though, and very grateful for the distraction of a visitor, even if – he realises this as he opens the door, which, really, is just a moment too late – they are looking for Gwaine and will be surprised to find Merlin in his room.

Fortunately, it is Lancelot there and he is not in the least surprised that it is Merlin who lets him in. “Gwaine isn’t here,” he tells him, slightly unnecessarily, as he returns to his perch on the bed and indicates a chair to Lance. “Or was it me you were looking for?”

“You,” he answers. “I know where he is.”

Merlin doesn’t want to hear it, beyond a doubt, but he asks anyway. He aims for a noncommittal look as he does so, but thinks he falls quite a long way short. “Oh?”

“Yes. I left him asleep, in my room.”

“Y-your room?” He has never known himself to stutter before, but if ever there was a time to begin, it would be finding out that your lover, offered the choice of anyone in the city, picks a mutual friend to sleep with. “You?”

The images of Gwaine and an improbably beautiful blonde woman vanish instantly from the corner of his mind to which he has banished them, replaced by alarmingly clear ones of Gwaine and Lancelot, doing everything Gwaine does with Merlin, everything that makes Merlin feel alive. He is so very glad he is sitting down right now, otherwise he knows he would end up on his arse, adding embarrassment and physical pain to the nausea he is currently suffering from. He claps his hand over his mouth, as if that will help hold everything he is feeling inside; it does little to control the jealousy, the anger, the feeling of betrayal, but it does leave him feeling slightly less like he is about to throw up. The way the air crackles slightly around him helps as well, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, his magic coming out instinctively to protect him from whatever danger he is facing.

It isn’t that he is jealous that is new to him, because he has been jealous of every girl Arthur has fallen for, with or without magical assistance. But that he feels like Gwaine has disappointed him, been unfaithful, even though he hasn’t? That is something unfamiliar and entirely unpleasant. Merlin said he didn’t mind if Gwaine slept with other people and, regardless of the fact that he now realises that isn’t true, he can’t consider it to be a betrayal that Gwaine took him up on the suggestion. The lies, though, they hurt; Gwaine said that he didn’t feel anything for Lancelot, that he didn’t sleep with his friends, deliberately gave Merlin the impression that he was an exception.

And Lancelot, who has been Merlin’s friend since he first saved his life all those years ago. Lancelot, who Merlin has told everything to, who knows every single secret Merlin has but one, who has heard all the twisted ins and outs of this thing he has with Gwaine. Lancelot should know better.

Lancelot, he realises, as the crackling turns to the odd visible spark, should really be elsewhere, because as angry as Merlin is with him right now, he will regret doing anything to hurt him. Lancelot should _not_ be rising from his chair and walking towards Merlin, his expression one of concern and compassion.

“Merlin? Are you-” he begins, worrying close.

“Am I what?” Merlin replies, loud enough to hear himself over the pounding of blood in his ears. “Hurt? Angry? Currently trying not to hurt you?”

“Why? Do you think that I did something with him?” The tone of shock with which Lancelot replies is enough to make Merlin question this assumption.

“You mean you didn’t?” he asks, more confused than anything else, because why would Gwaine be sleeping in Lancelot’s room if not because they had been together?

“No, Merlin, I did _not_.” Lance is no less offended by what Merlin has said than Gwaine was earlier, but at least he goes on to explain why. “Aside from the fact that I am not in the least attracted to him, Gwaine is your – to be honest, I have no idea what you two are, but I am beginning to think that perhaps it is not healthy – regardless, he is yours, so even if I did want him I would not act on it.”

This is something that Merlin knew already, something that should have been obvious to him; of course it should, because look how hard Gwaine had to try to get Lance to make a move on Gwen so many months ago, and almost everyone knows that he loves her. There is no reason for Merlin to think that Lance would ever do anything with Gwaine. “Sorry,” he mumbles, genuinely contrite. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Believe it or not, I had already worked that out.” Lance sighs, and then sits carefully next to Merlin. “I came here so you would not be worrying about where he was. He was in the tavern when we got there, getting increasingly drunk and miserable. I bought him a bowl of stew and tried to get him to come back here. He would not, so I took him back to my room and gave him a stack of blankets and a place by the fire. Nothing more than that happened, and neither of us would have wanted it to.”

“He might,” Merlin replies, but does so quietly. “Did he tell you what I said to him?”

“Yes. Further evidence of your lack of thought, I believe.”

Merlin wraps his arms around his knees and stares at the hole in his left sock through which his big toe is poking. “I really didn’t think it would bother me this much. Otherwise I wouldn’t have suggested it.”

The hand Lancelot places on his shoulder is, whilst comforting, also a demand to look at him. Merlin obeys, and so sees the stern expression Lance wears as he asks his next question. “And did you consider how much it would bother him?”

Merlin’s expression alone is clearly answer enough, since Lance sighs again and the stern expression on his face melts into a sad one. “Gwaine has not been that drunk since the pair of you started this thing you have. Nor, I believe, has he done anything to suggest he wants anyone other than you. Has he?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, he hasn’t. He still flirts, a little, but he doesn’t mean it, I don’t think. It’s just who he is. But...he’s never shown signs of wanting a relationship before. Of everyone who has come before me, I don’t see why he...I’m no one special. I’m just Merlin. If it was my magic, I’d understand, but he doesn’t even like me using it when we’re together.” That, if he is correctly interpreting Lance’s expression, is crossing the line into things that should not be shared, at all, ever, particularly not with an alarmingly straight friend, so he follows that tangent with the truth, whole and nothing but. “I am scared,” he says, and hears the raw honesty in his voice, “That he will see who I am, how selfish I really am, and he will leave.”

Of all the reactions he could have imagined Lancelot having to that sentence, laughter was really not one of them, but it is the reaction he has. Not cruel laughter, certainly, but laughter none the less. “That, Merlin, is one of the stupidest things I have ever heard. For one, you are about the furthest thing from selfish I know of. For another, pushing Gwaine away is not the best way to keep him from leaving you, is it? Idiot,” he concludes, almost fondly.

Merlin sob-laughs, because he is, he knows he is. In love with one of his best friends, sleeping with another, seeking advice from a third, to whom he is only willing to tell half the story; idiocy is the only kind – if slightly inadequate – description of his actions. “Yeah,” he says softly, “Yeah, I know that. Sorry.”

Lancelot stands and squeezes Merlin’s shoulder once before letting go. “It is fine, Merlin. Just try not to do it again. Or at least deal with him yourself if you do. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

X

Gwaine wakes, unhappily, at some despicable time in the morning; on top of all his other numerous faults (or virtues, really, but Gwaine, due to the pounding in his head and the residual stiffness from sleeping on the floor, is not feeling particularly charitable today), it seems that Lance is also a morning person. He isn’t even one of the nice morning people who are content to be awake and go about their business _quietly_ , but one of the noisy ones who think that because they are happy to be facing another day, so should everyone else be. Gwaine grumbles incoherently under his breath and pulls his blanket over his head in the hope of getting a few more minutes of sleep, only to be denied it in the cruelest way possible.

“Sorry,” Lance says, and if it were anyone else Gwaine would suspect them of insincerity. “I did not intend to wake you.”

That being the case, Gwaine thinks, Lance should really have known better than to say anything on realising that he was awake. Still, he throws back the blanket and sits up, not quite caring enough to attempt a smile but willing to bend the truth a little. “It’s alright, mate. Not like I sleep any later usually, what with Merlin having to be up at dawn. Don’t normally have the headache, but...you had breakfast yet?”

“No, I thought I would wait for you.”

Gwaine isn’t entirely sure if that is kindness on Lance’s part or just a reluctance to leave him unaccompanied in his room, but he thanks him anyway. “You go, and I’ll catch you up,” he adds. “I want to get changed first.” He picks up his belt and knife from the spot he placed them in beside his blankets before falling asleep, then stands and collects his boots from by the door, though doesn’t put then on – he’ll only take them off again when he reaches his own room to change.

They walk silently through the halls until such time as their paths split. Lance seems content to leave him without speaking, but Gwaine calls him back quietly. “How was he?” he asks, and Lancelot has the good manners not to pretend he doesn’t understand.

“Upset, though slightly better when I told him all you did was drink and fall asleep on my floor.” Lancelot rolls his eyes, then smiles (though Gwaine would call a smirk if it was attached to anyone else). “He also seemed to be under the impression that you have feelings for me.”

“Still?” Gwaine shakes his head. “You know he’s wrong, don’t you? I mean, it’s not that I don’t like you, but, really, _no_.”

“I did not think for a moment that you did.” Lance says, smiling in a way that says he remembers Gwaine using almost the exact same words yesterday, in a very similar context. “It is not me who needs convincing of that.”

“Thought I’d convinced him already. But thanks, mate. For telling him, and just for going to check on him.” Gwaine walks away before he can hear the inevitable, ridiculous response; that Lance was just acting out of concern for his friends, that anyone would have done the same, that he really doesn’t merit gratitude.

X

Merlin rushes through his morning duties, determined to find Gwaine before he has to attend to Arthur on the training field. He doesn’t know what the words he will use to explain himself are, but he knows that it will be better to say them sooner rather than later and, if at all possible, without an audience. Arthur frowns each time he does something with more haste than is wise, but, thanks to the fact that he no longer needs to hide his magic from him, Merlin is able to rectify any errors before they become disastrous.

“Do you have somewhere else to be, Merlin?” Arthur asks – as pompous as ever, but with the undercurrent of affection Merlin has learnt to notice only by its absence – when Merlin has his magic make the bed in only seconds rather than the minutes it takes to do it by hand.

“Yes,” he answers, because Arthur will know a denial for the lie it is and make up extra tasks for him out of pure spite. “I’ll see you outside,” he adds, and departs before Arthur has the chance to object.

Merlin knows from Lance’s first stay in the city that, even when hungover – which he is pretty certain he won’t be, since he didn’t sound at all tipsy last night – he is an early riser, and Gwaine sleeps too lightly not to have woken at the same time as him. Because of this, it is now too late to catch him in Lance’s room, and too early still for them to have finished breakfast. He knows as well that Gwaine rarely returns to his room between eating and heading out to the field, so the chances of catching him there are minimal; Merlin’s best bet, it seems, is to lurk outside the knights’ mess hall and grab Gwaine as he leaves.

A quick peek through the door shows Gwaine to be sitting between Lancelot and Leon, a mostly empty plate in front of him. Merlin might have waved in an attempt to get his attention, but Leon happens to glance up before he can, so he ducks back out of sight and settles for waiting.

His attempt to hide proves futile, though, because Gwaine walks out the door mere moments later, a slice of bread in one hand. “Leon said you were out here,” he says between bites. “You eaten yet?”

“Yes, I got breakfast from the kitchen.” Merlin takes a deep breath before his next words. “Look, Gwaine, I’m s-”

“Don’t be. Might’ve overreacted a little, anyway.” Gwaine shrugs. “Hardly grown up, was it, storming out like that. Lance said he came to see you, told you where I was.”

“Yeah, he did.” Before Merlin can elaborate further (or make a second attempt at his apology, and provide the explanation for it), the door opens and a couple of the other knights – the ones too highborn to pay much attention to a servant, and thus not anyone whose name Merlin is aware of – emerge. He waits until they have rounded the corner, then takes Gwaine’s free hand and leads him in the opposite direction to an oh-so-convenient alcove (possibly one of the many he has hidden in before, but just as possibly not). With two of them there, it isn’t the roomiest of hiding places, but it’s not like they aren’t used to being so close together.

Merlin directs his next words to their joined hands, concentrating on the way Gwaine has laced their fingers together, the gesture of commitment coming so easily, almost instinctively. “I take it back,” he says, so quiet he half expects Gwaine not to hear him.

“Take what back?” he asks, brushing his thumb over the back of Merlin’s hand in what is presumably supposed to be a calming gesture. Merlin has to look at him then, untwining their hands, needing to be free of the comfort such contact offers, because if he doesn’t say this now, he will so easily not say it at all.

“I would mind,” Merlin tells him.

Gwaine smiles, wide and honest. “Oh? Would you now?”

Merlin feels like he has to justify this, somehow explain it, so that they can be entirely free of misunderstandings, at least for today. “I wasn’t lying when I said I wouldn’t, because I really thought I’d be fine with it. But then I said it, and you left and...I wasn’t.” He braces himself slightly before finishing. “I don’t want you to be with other people.”

“That’s a shame,” Gwaine answers, smile no smaller, and entirely audible in his voice. “See, I had my heart set on chasing Lancelot until he gave in, and now you aren’t going to let me.”

Merlin feels his cheeks redden at this comment, then get even hotter as Gwaine laughs at his blush. “Lance told you what I thought?”

“Not so much.” Gwaine is still gleeful, apparently much more amused than the last time Merlin accused him of liking Lancelot. “He just suggested I make it plain to you that I have no feelings for him whatsoever. Thought I already had, to be honest, but seeing as you didn’t get it then, I’ll say it again now. I don’t want Lance. Never have, never will. We clear on that?”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry.” Merlin doesn’t resist when Gwaine takes his hand again, brushing calloused fingers across his knuckles; he has said what he had to, and Gwaine seems happy with it. Some stupid concerned part of him wants to make sure, though. “Are you really okay with this, us? You and me, _just_ you and me?”

“Merlin, lo-ook, mate, if I didn’t want a relationship with you, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” He holds their joined hands up between their faces, squeezing gently. “This is good, isn’t it? Why would I go looking for more?”

Merlin doesn’t really have any words to follow that, but, if Gwaine’s reaction is any indication, leaning down to press their lips together is more than answer enough.

It isn’t love, he thinks, as Gwaine presses him back into the wall, their hands roaming with easy familiarity. It isn’t love, but it’s good.

X

Gwaine is, inevitably, late for training. He sees Lance shake his head at him when he arrives, slightly dishevelled and quite possibly grinning like a loon. Arthur glares, but says nothing, not even when Merlin arrives a few minutes later, looking a little more put together but not much.

X

“Gwaine?” Merlin asks him a week or so later, when they are still within the period of slightly cautious bliss that comes at the end of an argument, even a short one. This thing they have, whatever it is, seems less fragile now, Gwaine thinks, even if Merlin doesn’t know fully how he feels (despite Lance telling Gwaine repeatedly that he should). And maybe, _maybe,_ Merlin is still casting the occasional long, lingering and hopeless glance at Arthur, but still; Gwaine knew this was how things would be, and it is more than he ever thought to hope for.

“Hmm?” he responds in a slightly distracted manner, continuing to fold Arthur’s freshly laundered shirts (honestly, he doesn’t even fold his own clothing, and then he befriends Merlin – his patheticness started long before they began sleeping together – and suddenly he is doing domestic chores for the prince. Well, for Merlin, and he did offer to help, but _really_?) Then he looks up to see that Merlin has stopped whatever he was doing and is staring at Gwaine with a deeply serious expression.

He quells his immediate reaction, one of slightly irrational panic that Merlin is going to say something else accidentally hurtful (a fear he has never really had before, because this is the longest he has been monogamous in more years than he cares to admit – and shame with regards to his pre-Merlin promiscuity is fairly new to him as well – and he has never actually had _feelings_ before), instead managing a smile, just. “What is it?”

“Have you – and don’t get offended by this, or angry, please,” this is hardly inspiring confidence in Gwaine, to be honest. “Have you ever thought about going home?”

While Merlin is pretty damn odd, he probably isn’t odd enough to manage to turn this into something that will upset him, Gwaine thinks, in the brief time it takes for Merlin’s question to sink in. When it does, Gwaine is confused, mostly, and entirely unsure how he should be feeling about it. A fact that Merlin seems to realise, because he comes over to Gwaine, walking around Arthur’s bed and taking the half-folded shirt from him before placing a kind hand on his.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by asking. I was just thinking about my mother, and Ealdor, and then about how none of you – Arthur’s knights, I mean – none of you ever talk about your homes or families, really.” Merlin looks down at him, so sincere and a little sad.

Gwaine knows that his reply, “No, I don’t,” is terse, almost snapped, so he pulls Merlin into a hug that he hopes makes up for his tone of voice, just for a minute. Then he pushes him back, smiling, and takes back the shirt he’d been folding, saying, “Come on, then. I’m not doing your job all on my own here.”

X

That wasn’t really even a lie, anyway, because up until Merlin mentioned it, Gwaine never thought of going home. Occasionally, yes, he thinks of his mother, and his brothers, or, when his mind is feeling particularly treacherous, his father, but only in passing. It’s been so long since he left home, and he stopped missing them years ago.

Only now, he can’t stop. He thinks about the best time to travel, the route he’d take to get there. About what he’d take as gifts, and whether he’d wear full Camelot regalia or if he’d just go as himself; ragged, errant, prodigal son.

It is only when, one market day in the middle of the unseasonably warm autumn (a solid accompaniment to the despicably hot summer they have just endured), he finds himself fingering a fine silver bracelet and replying to Elyan’s joking question about if he has a sweetheart with, “Was thinking about it for my mother, actually,” that he realises he is seriously planning on going home.

He thinks, just briefly, about asking Merlin to come with him, but he won’t. He knows, without even asking, what he will say; Gwaine knows his place, both in Camelot and in Merlin’s heart, and it will always be behind Arthur.

X

Still, just because he knows Merlin won’t come with him (and, much as he loves both Merlin and his family, he isn’t entirely sure he wants them to meet, anyway. Particularly seeing as he thinks Merlin’s desire for secrecy will probably extend to them as well, and he really doesn’t think that’s something he could keep from his mother, even with years of separation between them) it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have to find some way to tell him. Which he isn’t sure how to do. He loves Merlin, but he is a little concerned with how Merlin will get on without him.

This sounds arrogant, Gwaine knows, especially since, seen from Merlin’s side, they are nothing more than an arrangement of convenience, even if they are friends. But Gwaine helps Merlin with his work (not that Merlin couldn’t do it far quicker with magic, if he wanted to) and he puts up with his feet dragging him places all the time. He is there when Merlin wants to talk about anything or nothing, and when Merlin has just got another ridiculous and/or heart-wrenching request from Arthur and just needs somewhere to escape to.

Gwaine loves Merlin, yes, but Merlin needs him.

This is what brings Gwaine to his current situation: talking to Lancelot. In itself, this is not usually such a chore, because once you get past the sappy, self-sacrificing nature and the slight dimness, Lance is an excellent bloke (and he’s always on Merlin’s side, which is enough to make up for at least a couple of his annoying character traits). This conversation, though, is about Gwaine’s feelings and, stone cold sober, usually Gwaine would be looking all over for an excuse to escape, but he can’t because he bloody well started it.

“So what you are saying is that you are going to see your family and you want me to keep an eye on your boyfriend when you are gone?” Lancelot says, when Gwaine has mostly explained the situation.

“Uh, sort of,” Gwaine replies. “But not how you’re making it sound. I just need to know someone’s there for him if things get too much and he needs someone to talk to, and seeing as you know pretty much all of his secrets...” He trails off, knowing he must just sound weirdly overprotective, because Lance is in possession of most of but not quite all the facts.

“Has it not occurred you to ask Merlin to go with you?” His voice is slow, bordering on patronising, prompting a glare from Gwaine.

“Of course it has. He wouldn’t come, though; he’d stay to protect Arthur.” Gwaine does _not_ sound jealous, even if Lance is looking at him in sympathy.

It doesn’t last, anyway; his sympathy rapidly seems to morph into some kind of exasperated pity. “And you have not told him. Maybe if he knew you-”

“Shut it, Lance,” Gwaine hisses, because whilst this is a sufficiently private place to discuss looking out for Merlin, he will not have his feelings for him discussed anywhere where they might be overheard. “I’m not telling him, and I’m not having this conversation with you again.”

Lance snarls back (this in itself is scarier than it should be, primarily because Lance _does not_ snarl, and Gwaine has to wonder just how much of a bad influence moving to Camelot permanently has been on him), equally quietly, at least. “Yes, you are, Gwaine. Tell him or you’ll keep having this conversation until you do. I might not be head over heels like you are, but he is my friend and I will not let you keep hurting him like this. Neither of you are really happy with the way things are, are you? He makes stupid suggestions that upset you because he does not know how you feel. And you did not see how sad he was when he thought you would leave him. That you would keep from him the one thing that would reassure him is not right.”

In Gwaine’s experience, nothing is truly right or wrong, and he is somewhat surprised that Lance, after the life he has lived, can argue that it is. He wants to tell him so, but that would require more explanation than he is willing to give, more than he is free to give; just because his vows are nothing more than blood and words, it does not mean he will willingly be forsworn. Besides, even if he isn’t the bad guy here, even if there is no bad guy, what they are doing is hardly all that fair on either of them.

But he can’t just let Lancelot carry on like this; he has to say something in his defence. He won’t tell Merlin that he loves him, because he knows exactly what will happen if he does. Merlin still loves Arthur and because of that, he won’t allow himself to be with someone who loves him. “Look, Lance. If I tell him, he will end this. Best case scenario, he pretends nothing has changed, even though we both know it has. He’ll start thinking carefully about how I’ll _feel_ before telling me anything, then stop bothering to tell me anything at all. We won’t be whatever it is we are now; we won’t even be friends, just two people who fuck sometimes. And then eventually even that will end, and we’ll both be miserable and alone. Is that what you want?”

Lancelot isn’t even bordering on sympathetic or pitying now. He is just angry, and Gwaine is shocked by just how much this hurts him; he thought, just a little, that Lance might be on his side, or at least capable of seeing his side. “Merlin deserves better than you,” he says, and Gwaine can hear just how much he believes that to be true. “He deserves someone who trusts him, someone willing to tell him they love him. So you will tell him, and soon. Yes, I will watch over him while you’re gone, but not for you. If he does not know by the time you leave, I will spend your whole absence telling him to end this.”

He pauses, as if to allow Gwaine the chance to be a good person and agree to ‘fessing up to Merlin. Gwaine doesn’t, though, because he _is_ happy now, _Merlin_ is happy now and it might not be all down to him but it is in part, and he won’t let Lance take that away. “No, you can’t. Merlin,” Gwaine hears the way his voice breaks on the name, betraying everything he wants to keep secret, and he isn’t angry at Lance anymore, not at all, only at himself and the number of times his conversations with Lancelot end with Gwaine begging him to stay quiet about this. “Merlin needs this. Please, Lance, don’t.”

The pity is back in Lance’s eyes, more painful than the anger still staining his face and voice. Not even tempered by compassion or friendship, it is nothing more than the dispassionate emotion one feels for a bug just before standing on it. “And you do not, right? You get nothing from this dalliance you two have? Tell him, Gwaine. Tell him, or I will.”

It is only when Lance has stormed off that Gwaine sees Merlin watching calmly, cautiously. His stomach tenses for a moment, but Merlin would be neither calm nor curious if he knew all of what he and Lance had been discussing. Gwaine relaxes, smiles at Merlin, and leaves before he can ask any of his questions.

X

“I need to talk to you, Merlin.”

Merlin has been expecting this for a while. Ever since he heard Lancelot and Gwaine arguing in near-whispers, an argument that ended, “You tell him, or I will,” he’s been waiting for this.

He didn’t catch any more of the argument than that, but he didn’t have to; there are only two people that they could be talking about, and Lance would never threaten to tell something of Gwaine’s to Arthur. Most days, it’s all Lancelot can do to look him in the face, let alone spill another man’s secrets; the idiot still feels guilty. And seeing as he isn’t going to tell anything to Arthur, he must be planning on telling it to Merlin.

Still, just because Merlin has anticipated the conversation, it doesn’t mean he isn’t going to put it off as long as possible. He isn’t even sure what it’s about, but nothing good ever starts with _I need to talk to you_ , and if it’s something Gwaine doesn’t want him to know, Merlin doesn’t want to hear it. He owes him that much, at least.

“Can’t it wait ‘til later, Lancelot?” he says. “Only I’m kind of busy now.”

Lance looks disgruntled, but allows it. “Later, then. It really is important.”

X

He gets away with flimsy excuses for a few days, at least until Lance works out what he’s doing and offers to talk while Merlin works. He doesn’t even know why Lance wants to talk to him so desperately, only that he doesn’t want to hear it. Instead of lying and running, Merlin just summons Gwaine, even though he _knows_ how much he hates that.

Lance glares at Merlin when Gwaine pops up, but doesn’t say anything, nodding at Gwaine before he stalks away.

“What was that about?” Gwaine asks, and Merlin doesn’t need magic to tell he’s only pretending not to know.

“Dunno,” Merlin replies, and smiles easily. “I thought it might be something you’d want to hear. Apparently it wasn’t all that important.”

X

“Sir Gwaine,” Arthur calls at the end of training a few days after Gwaine’s confrontation with Lancelot, and Gwaine winces; whatever the prince wants, it cannot possibly be good if he feels the need to begin with a title. “I wish to speak to you.”

Rather than following the others as they head back to the castle, Gwaine walks reluctantly towards Arthur, arriving in time to hear him firmly dismiss Merlin. “Little harsh,” he states, not making the slightest bit of effort to sound non-judgemental, as he watches the dejected slope of Merlin’s shoulders as he walks away.

“Since it has recently come to my attention that you spent a night with Sir Lancelot a couple of weeks ago, I hardly think you are in any position to be expressing concern for Merlin’s welfare.”

Gwaine knows, he really does, that the best response in this situation is to be honest and tell Arthur that, despite it being absolutely none of his business what Gwaine does, nothing happened. If he wants to stay in the city – and he does, mostly, or at least wants to have the opportunity of returning if he leaves – that is what he should be saying. As it is, though, he can only think of one thing to say.

“How? How can you possibly know that?”

Even as he asks, he’s aware that Arthur isn’t going to answer him. No, Arthur is just going to stand there entirely ignoring the fact that Gwaine has just asked a question as he waits for him to come up with some sort of explanation. Gwaine knows he can win a battle of egos against most men (though whether or not that’s a good thing is an entirely different matter), but challenging Arthur is going a little too far. The prince is a good man, yes, but he is _proud_ , and Merlin is trying steadily to convince Gwaine to stay away from fights he isn’t going to win. It’s not a lesson he’s learning easily, because knowing for certain that you aren’t going to lose takes half the fun out of it, but this time...

“Fine, then,” he says. “However you found that out, you must also know that Lance went to talk to Merlin in my room far too soon after we entered his room for anything to have gone on between us, even if either of us had wanted it to.” Arthur’s expression is enough to confirm that he does indeed know that, but it also tells Gwaine that this is not reason enough for him to be let off the hook, so he continues. “By the time he left, I was asleep on his floor and he was telling Merlin that I was fine, just a little bit drunk, and that we could fix the argument we’d had in the morning. Which we did, not that that is any of your concern.”

“Merlin is entirely my concern, as are all of my other subjects.” Arthur answers, crisp and without inflection, and it really isn’t something Gwaine can stand hearing.

“You can’t even admit that he’s your friend, can you? Even knowing everything he risks for you, you won’t say it.” He makes an effort to hide his disgust at some of the things he sees in the city, for Merlin’s sake, but Merlin isn’t here right now and Arthur deserves it, he really does. “If I were him, I’d have let you die years ago.”

He knows he wouldn’t of course, because if what Merlin feels for Arthur is anything like what Gwaine feels for Merlin, there is no way Gwaine, in Merlin’s place, could let Arthur die, ever. It feels good to say it anyway, to see the expression on Arthur’s face, something that looks very close to actual hurt. He imagines the consequences will feel nowhere near as good, but seeing as Merlin apparently requires his presence very urgently, he gets to avoid them for the moment.

Even though he knows how very stupid it is, Gwaine takes his abrupt departure as opportunity to add, “And Lancelot and me? Are you blind or just really thick?”

Arthur is too confused or maybe just too shocked to demand Gwaine return as he walks away, not that he could have done so if he had.

X

Despite his gratitude for the interruption, Gwaine begins composing a speech in his head about how some time he might actually be in the middle of doing something important when Merlin summons him, or talking to someone who requires an explanation before allowing him to hurry off. A speech that vanishes entirely from his brain when he sees Merlin and Lancelot standing in an alcove down the corridor from Gaius’ work room, the latter looking very serious and the former desperately searching for some way to escape.

He can tell the exact second when each of them see him; Merlin looks relieved, the emotion painted all over his face, whilst Lance, nodding at him in a way that says _you win this time_ , leaves. Gwaine feigns ignorance, and pretends to be mollified by Merlin’s reasons for playing puppeteer, trying instead to work out if Merlin knows he’s lying.

Mostly, though, he wonders why Merlin doesn’t want to talk to Lance. He doesn’t ask him, but he wonders, because, knowing what the conversation is about, Gwaine knows why Merlin wouldn’t want to have it.

He thinks, briefly, that Merlin might already know how he feels, might know and be pretending not to so he can carry on with things the way they are, in which case, Lance telling him would force him to end the relationship. This is too cold, though, too calculating for Merlin, who spends his time agonising over every difficult decision he makes (Merlin told him, recently, that he questions whether Morgana would never have turned out evil if he hadn’t poisoned her, if all that happened is really Merlin’s fault. Gwaine could do nothing, say nothing, except hold Merlin closer and tighter and tell him that what he did was right. He didn’t say that it wasn’t his fault, because he can’t lie to him, not even if he wants to, and he just didn’t know).

No, Merlin doesn’t know, and Gwaine will do his best to keep it that way.

X

_Merlin moans as Arthur’s hands skim across his stomach, thumbs tracing patterns only he can decipher, meaningless swirls and curves and lines that leave Merlin’s skin feeling like fire. He bites his lower lip as Arthur’s tongue leaves similar shapes on his neck, tilting his head to one side to allow him easier access, more room to work with. Arthur moves his mouth away, just slightly, breath ghosting on Merlin’s neck, raising goosebumps partly from cold, partly pleasure, entirely a sensation Merlin loves and_

“Open your eyes,” Gwaine whispers, mouth just south of Merlin’s left earlobe.

Merlin flinches, not even sure how Gwaine knew they were closed, guilt washing through his body to sit heavy in his stomach. He freezes, even as Gwaine’s hands continue roaming and he draws back to look at Merlin’s face, directly into his now very open eyes. “I...” Merlin begins, knowing only that he should say something, but having no idea what.

“Don’t,” Gwaine tells him, softly and with an emotion Merlin can’t interpret. He would say fear, almost, but Gwaine is the very antithesis of fear. “Don’t explain. I understand.” He moves steadily closer, until his lips are almost brushing Merlin’s, and Merlin wants so much to close that distance, but the weight inside of him tells him he can’t, won’t, mustn’t, until Gwaine is finished talking. “Tonight,” he says slowly, each syllable punctuated by a brush of his thumbs on Merlin’s hipbones, “Just tonight, stay with me.”

It takes an age for Gwaine to close the gap between their lips, and even then it is barely anything more than mere contact. Merlin opens his mouth slightly, just as slowly, and knows that Gwaine reads it as it is intended; apology, agreement, acceptance.

He wants to ask why. Why tonight, why only tonight, why has Gwaine never said anything before? But he knows the answers already; he has no need to hear Gwaine say them. This has to do with the secret Lancelot knows and thinks Merlin should as well, and whatever it is, Gwaine is _scared_ of Merlin knowing it.

Merlin doesn’t comment when Gwaine holds him hard enough to leave bruises, doesn’t breathe a word about the air of desperation with which they move. He doesn’t acknowledge the dampness on his shoulder where Gwaine pillows his head afterwards, doesn’t close his own eyes until Gwaine is fast asleep beside him.

Merlin isn’t even sure he blinks before then.

X

Over the next week or two, Gwaine keeps a close eye on Merlin, going along almost happily when his feet walk him over to interrupt Lance, watching carefully enough that he is there before required sometimes. He is glad, truly, that Lance is scared away just by his being there; much as he wants Merlin to know the truth, apparently Lance is only willing to reveal it in the absence of Gwaine.

After those weeks, Lance seems to back off, and Gwaine is too busy feeling lucky about the reprieve – using it to think up ways to tell Merlin he’s leaving for a few weeks, and ways to convince Lance to keep his freaking mouth shut – to realise how suspicious this is after how persistent Lance was.

It is his complacency that is to blame for what happens, and Lancelot’s pigheaded refusal to listen to Gwaine (who isn’t always right, and will readily admit it, but is _not_ wrong about this). It is not Merlin’s fault.

Not that anyone listens to him when he tells them this.

X

Lancelot smarts up pretty quickly when neither Gwaine nor Merlin show any sign of being willing to let him talk to Merlin alone.

Of course, Merlin doesn’t realise this; he just thinks (in retrospect, he’s just a little bit too optimistic) that Lance has given up, or that Gwaine has succeeded in convincing him not to tell Merlin whatever it is he wants to tell him.

And then Gwen attacks.

Well, no, she doesn’t. Merlin has a hard time imagining Gwen attacking anyone; she’s just too nice. Still, she is _so_ much better at confrontations than Lancelot is, and it’s not like anyone is anticipating her being a problem.

Although, for that matter, Merlin cannot imagine how Lance worked up the courage to talk to her, because he hasn’t been near her without the presence of a chaperone in months. But clearly this is important enough for him to risk Merlin’s wrath, which only further convinces Merlin he doesn’t want to know what this is all about (even if he’s more than a little curious by now).

“Hello, Merlin,” she says, sweet as ever. “Lancelot says he’s got something he needs to talk to you about, but you keep running away or getting Gwaine when he tries.” Merlin looks at her blankly, and she falters a little. “Not that you aren’t allowed to not want to talk to him, but he swears you really need to listen.”

“I’m sure he does, Gwen, but I’m busy at the moment. You know the king is getting worse; Arthur has so much more to do, and I have to help him as much as possible.” This, whilst not strictly a lie, is not exactly the truth either. Yes, Uther is steadily going nutty as squirrel poop (something Hunith has always been fond of saying), and yes, Merlin does have more work than normal, but it is because he _wants_ to do more, not because he’s been asked to, and he still has time to talk to people.

“Don’t lie, Merlin. If you wanted to talk to him, you would make time. I know you have magic, Arthur told me, so you could do everything far faster than you do now.” This isn’t as much of a revelation as Merlin would have first assumed it would be; Arthur tells Gwen anything he wants to, and Merlin isn’t fool enough to think that just because a secret isn’t Arthur’s to share, Arthur isn’t going to share it.

Gwen sighs. “Lancelot wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but he looked really worried. And you know he wouldn’t talk to me if it wasn’t necessary.” She flushes, only realising when she’s finished her sentence what she’s making reference to, then feels the need to explain it. “And, Merlin, you know that won’t happen again, don’t you? I really do love Arthur.”

The sincerity in that sentence makes Merlin want to cry; he does know it won’t happen again, and not only because Lancelot is shit-scared of Merlin’s revenge if he was to do anything with her. Gwen – however she might feel for Lancelot – loves Arthur, almost as much as Merlin does – well, she may actually love him more, but Merlin doesn’t think so (no, that is a lie; he doesn’t want to think so, because no one ever wants to think it possible for someone to love more than they do) – and she’s no more likely to hurt Arthur than Merlin is.

It is because he knows how sincere she is, this girl – woman – who will be queen and yet does not even think to give commands, that Merlin smiles and says, “Yeah, okay. I’ll talk to him.”

She pats him on the arm, then goes back to work with nothing more than a soft, “Thank you, Merlin. Thank you.”

X

Merlin doesn’t like to lie, and he doesn’t like to go back on his word. It is more for this reason that he seeks Lancelot out than it is because Gwen has managed to convince him. And he does actively seek him out, because if he’s going to have this conversation he really doesn’t want to have, he’s going to have it on his own terms.

He contemplates summoning Lancelot to the stables (his work place for the afternoon), as he would if it was Gwaine he wanted to talk to, but he decides against it; Gwaine is tolerantly amused by Merlin magically dragging him to and fro, but Lancelot probably won’t be. Besides, it feels somewhat disloyal, and it is easier to ignore that option entirely than it is to work out why.

Instead, he finishes mucking out Arthur’s horses (and Uther’s, too, because the king is certain he is at risk of a magic-wielding servant enchanting his horses to throw him to his death as soon as he mounts them, and the fact that this has never happened to Arthur shows that Merlin can be trusted. No one has worked up the nerve to point out that it has never happened to the king, either, and since Merlin isn’t stupid enough to do it himself, he’s stuck with the job) and goes hunting for Gwaine.

“Merlin,” he laughs, when Merlin finds him. “How surprising. Can’t remember the last time you came looking for me rather than dragging me off some place to find you.”

“Hmm,” Merlin replies, because he can’t think of anything more reasonable to say.

“There a problem, mate? Only you look kind of concerned.”

What Gwaine is mistaking for concern is actually Merlin’s _quick, think up something plausible_ face. The unfamiliarity is understandable; since Gwaine either knows or is a pretty key part of all of Merlin’s secrets, Merlin hasn’t felt the need to lie to him in some time. The chances of Gwaine coming and interrupting this crucial conversation with Lance are minimal, so Merlin really doesn’t know why he’s lying to him, only that he is. Gwaine has always adored tiny odds, anyway, though usually only in relation to his survival (a fact that Merlin is trying to change, but not doing so well at).

“Not really. At least, no problem you can’t solve.” Well, that didn’t sound quite how it was supposed to, if the way Gwaine’s mildly surprised expression is followed by waggling eyebrows is any indication. “Not quite that sort of problem,” Merlin adds quickly. “More’s the pity. I’m supposed to be cleaning Arthur and Gwen’s room, but Gaius has asked me for help with something, and I can’t be in two places at once.” He once tried it a while ago, thinking it might make his life a little bit easier, and that one attempt was more than enough.

Gwaine nods, still grinning. “Which do you want me to do, then? I suck at cleaning” – given that he has lived with Gwaine since the middle of summer, this is a fact of which Merlin is well aware – “but I reckon I’d be just as bad at helping Gaius.”

He thinks for a moment, and Merlin assumes he’s trying to pick between two undesirable options. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Gwaine has been avoiding Gaius for quite some time, and Merlin’s banking on this being the deciding factor, because if Gwaine chooses that option Merlin will have just a little bit of a problem. Fortunately, though, it seems Merlin knows Gwaine just as well as he thinks he does, as he smiles and says, “I’ll take the cleaning. Less chance of anyone dying if I cock that up.”

Merlin grins, possibly slightly brighter than the non-existent problem Gwaine has supposedly solved merits, but Gwaine doesn’t comment so it’s fine. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry, mate,” he replies, smirking. “Sure you’ll find some way to pay me back.” Gwaine checks the coast is clear (honestly, the level of crap he’s willing to put up with for Merlin’s sake is quite impressive, and Merlin doesn’t really know how – or why – he does it) before pressing a quick kiss to Merlin’s lips and ambling away.

X

That done, Merlin has nothing left on his list of avoidance techniques; it is time to talk to Lancelot.

He finds the other man in the forge, talking to Elyan about getting a new sword made (for reasons Merlin cannot quite comprehend, his current one is just not good enough). It seems to Merlin as good a place as any to talk – it’s loud, so the chances of being over heard are minimal, and few people are likely to want to eavesdrop badly enough to endure the temperature – so all he needs to do is get Elyan to leave, and that is simple.

Merlin clears his throat to announce his presence. “Elyan, your sister was looking for you. She seemed sort of worried.” This is all that is required for Elyan’s big brother streak to kick in and he is gone, barely mumbling a goodbye at the two of them. Merlin turns to a slightly startled Lancelot.

“You actually spoke to Gwen. This really must be a matter of life and death.” When Lancelot blanches, Merlin laughs – yes, he may have agreed to have this conversation, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything.” The _unless you give me reason to_ is so present it is almost audible.

Lancelot pales even further, but speaks anyway; of all the things Merlin has said of Lance, or heard said of him, that he is cowardly has never been one of them. “It is about Gwaine.”

“Is it _really_ ,” Merlin says, not a hint of a question to his voice; surely Lancelot cannot think that Merlin hadn’t worked that out already. “I’m fairly sure I told you that that was none of your business.”

“You are my friend, Merlin, and so is he. That makes it my business, because one of you is going to end up getting hurt, more than you have already.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Merlin isn’t quite sure how many times he’ll have to repeat this before Lancelot gets it, but he’s going to keep going until he does. “If I choose to talk to you about it, that’s one thing. He doesn’t want you to tell me this, and I don’t want to know it.” He pauses before his next sentence, but not for too long, because he’s fairly sure it’s something Lancelot has already worked out. “Gwaine is _scared_ of me finding out whatever this is, Lancelot, actually, genuinely frightened. Isn’t that good enough reason for you not to?”

Lancelot shakes his head, softly, gently, but firmly. “Gwaine is an idiot to be scared. It is not anything bad, I promise you.”

“That isn’t your decision to make. I don’t talk to you about who you’re shagging. You could show us the same courtesy.” It is a final attempt to convince Lancelot not to share whatever this is, and Merlin knows how futile it is going to be, but he _has_ to make the effort anyway.

“That is because you know I am not shagging anyone, since the only person I want to shag does not love me.”

Merlin suspects the noise he makes in response to that can probably be best described as a snort, unpleasant though the description is, both because there are few words he can imagine it less likely to hear from Lancelot, and because he should surely know that Merlin wouldn’t have threatened him so thoroughly if Gwen didn’t feel anything for him. “Well, we don’t all have your high moral standards, do we?” he answers, choosing not to explain his scepticism.

“ _Some_ of us do, Merlin.”

“Of course. Because Camelot is just brimming with knights as noble as you are.”

Lancelot looks deeply saddened by this, though that is only to be expected given his stupidly sunny outlook on people. “It is, Merlin.”

“Elyan missed his own father’s funeral,” Merlin responds harshly. “Gwaine will sleep with anyone capable of saying no and stupid enough not to.” He doesn’t really know what that says about himself, but it certainly isn’t something he wants to stop and consider now, so he just carries straight on. “I don’t know what Percival is hiding, but no one is that strong and silent without having some sort of dark secret to overcome. We all know there’s something not right with how fortunate Leon is, even if no one says it. The rest of the knights barely even bother to acknowledge my existence, or yours. And Arthur is-”

Lancelot interrupts him then, and Merlin is glad because he’s not sure which of the many things he has said in the past about Arthur is going to spill from his lips but it surely won’t be said with the tone of insult it should be said with. “Arthur is soon to be king, Merlin. That is _enough_.” The disdain with which this sentence is said is so similar to the contempt Arthur regarded almost everyone with when Merlin first met him that Merlin blinks in shock. Lancelot’s voice softens slightly for his final sentence, but is no less disapproving. “These men are your friends.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t. I just said that they weren’t perfect.”

“I did not say they were. The leap from not wanting to be with someone you do not love to being perfect is entirely your doing.”

Merlin is so very tired of this, and far beyond the realm of wishing he had never agreed to talk to Lancelot. “Would you just tell me what you want to tell me, please, seeing as nothing I say is going to convince you not to?”

Lance, with an intensely long-suffering expression, begins what Merlin hopes is an explanation. “When Gwaine first told me about you, I thought he was just bored, or using you. I was not...not happy with him.”

Merlin remembers the bruise painted on Gwaine’s face for at least a week after they first slept together. He never asked Gwaine how he got it, mostly because they weren’t on hugely friendly terms at the time and they’ve had plenty of other things to discuss since, but now he’s fairly sure he knows anyway. “How hard did you hit him to leave a bruise like that one?” he asks, angry and something like flattered all at once.

He doesn’t expect Lancelot to look ashamed. “That was before I knew. He said something – well, he did not say it, but it was made very clear anyway – that changed my mind. It all seemed fine after that, with what I knew, even though he said it was more complicated than I thought. I assumed he would tell you himself, when he worked up the courage, when things seemed more permanent for the two of you, but he refuses.”

Lancelot takes a breath, deep and uncertain, looking Merlin dead in the eyes. “And I know it is not my place to tell you this, but he is planning on going home and-”

“He’s what?” Merlin interrupts, because last he knew Gwaine had entirely dismissed the possibility of leaving Camelot for his home, and neither of them has made any mention of it since then.

“Let me finish, please, Merlin.” Lancelot says, his determination showing no signs of wavering, despite what Merlin knows his facial expression must look like. “Gwaine is planning on _visiting_ home and he wants to ask you to go with him, but he is so sure you will say no. I see how jealous he is, and how insecure you are, and he could solve all of it so easily yet he tells me all sorts of rubbish about how you will react. And it all comes down to the same thing; you are both scared, and if he will not resolve this, I will.” This is the least coherent Merlin has ever heard Lancelot sound, and he is just the slightest bit concerned, somewhere in the midst of his growing irritation. Irritation wins, though, because he knows all this, all this and more, and he was expecting Lancelot to actually tell him something important. He is just about to tell him so, when Lancelot says, “Merlin, Gwaine is in love with you.”

Merlin doesn’t know what to say to this. It does not make sense, he thinks, so it cannot be true.

But why would Lancelot lie?

“Merlin, did you h-” Merlin knows something is wrong, that he needs to calm down and think this through properly, calmly, rationally, because he has just wished Lancelot would shut up and he has, completely, mouth still moving but no sound coming out. He closes his eyes, closes out the room, the temperature, the noise, trying to think, to breathe, to make sense of this.

Gwaine.

Gwaine cannot be in love with Merlin.

But why would Lancelot lie?

The only thing Merlin can think is that he wouldn’t; there is no reason for Lancelot to make this up, when Merlin could so easily ask Gwaine about it. So Lancelot isn’t lying, but all that means is that he believes it. It doesn’t mean it’s true.

This is Gwaine they’re talking about, _Gwaine_ , who has walked the very fine line between being easy and actually being a whore for years, only sitting firmly in the territory of easy on settling down in the city. So maybe he’s been faithful to Merlin – well, okay, there’s no _maybe_ to it, because Merlin knows he has – but that doesn’t mean he _loves_ him. Gwaine doesn’t know how to love.

And yet, Lancelot isn’t stupid. Of everyone, he is the only person astute enough to work out that Merlin has magic without either seeing it directly for himself or being told about it. He also said that Gwaine told him he loved Merlin, or as good as told him it, and it’s not like that’s something easily misunderstood.

Fuck.

That’s really a word Merlin does his best not to use, but it’s appropriate now.

Because it makes sense now, everything does; this fact clarifies it all. The reason Merlin is the exception to Gwaine’s _no friends_ rule, the reason Gwaine was so upset to wake up alone that first morning. The confusion afterwards, when Gwaine hid away and hated himself because Merlin said he wished it had never happened. How hurt Gwaine was when Merlin told him he could sleep with other people, how delighted he was when Merlin took it back.

The way Merlin has caught Gwaine looking at him, sometimes, looks that there are no words for, looks that Merlin has put down to imagination, exhaustion, poor lighting, because he didn’t know why Gwaine would be looking at him like that.

Of all the reasons he has considered for Gwaine being with him, that Gwaine _loves_ him has never even crossed his mind.

Fuck.

_Pretend_ , something deep in his mind whispers. _Pretend you don’t know_. And he could, so easily he could. Leave now, act like he doesn’t know, talk to Gwaine like nothing is different, slip into bed beside him like there are no feelings stronger than friendship involved. This doesn’t have to change anything.

Except it does.

“What did he say to you?” he demands, then opens his eyes when Lancelot doesn’t say anything. “He told you how I would react. What did he say?” His voice is more shrill than it normally is, higher than it should be, and he has no idea what his face must look like but he imagines it probably matches the tone of his voice in that it doesn’t belong to him. “ _Answer me_ ,” he commands, and feels the power leech out of him to undo whatever it is his thoughts managed to do to Lancelot’s voice earlier.

Lancelot looks at him, pale, eyes wide with something that, if not fear exactly, is certainly very close to it. It gathers in Merlin’s stomach as a sickness, that he is causing this, but he needs to know just what Gwaine thinks he will do with this knowledge. “He said,” Lance begins, then has to pause to clear his throat in an attempt to push some of the hoarseness from his voice. “He said that you would end things with him if you know. You cannot be mad at him for thinking that, though; you know he has never-”

“Enough,” Merlin says, no less a command than before, and Lancelot stops talking again; Merlin doesn’t know if his magic made him or if it was a choice on Lancelot’s behalf, and cannot really bring himself to care. He doesn’t know how that sentence was going to finish, but he doesn’t have to. He knows he can’t blame Gwaine for thinking it, because he is right, and Merlin can’t even imagine being able to lie to Gwaine for any length of time when Gwaine knows him better than anyone. “Why,” he says, anger softening his voice, bringing it back down to its normal pitch, but still not sounding like himself, “Why do you have to believe everyone is as good as you are?”

Lancelot steps towards him, slowly, “Merlin, Gwaine _is_ as-”

“I’m not talking about Gwaine,” Merlin snaps, and Lancelot freezes again. “I was _happy_ ,” he adds, barely noticing how quickly he has already moved to the past tense. “We both were. I thought you accepted that, even if you didn’t approve. But you couldn’t, could you? You just had to make everyone else as unhappy as you are.”

He remembers saying the same thing to Gwaine about his own motives, the night he told everyone that Arthur was going to propose to Gwen, when he wanted Lancelot to know how completely impossible it was for him to have the person he loves. When he wanted to make certain someone else was hurting as much as he was, and with no idea that Gwaine already was. Gwaine, the stupid _fucking_ idiot, was kind, understanding, had tucked Merlin into his own bed and wouldn’t even join him there, just so they could avoid being in a situation like this one. Gwaine has always been understanding, self-sacrificing, willing to bend over backwards to make Merlin happy, and has never asked for anything in return.

Merlin thinks of all the times Gwaine has been there to tell lies for him, or to help him extricate his foot from his mouth. The times Gwaine has listened to his problems – showing no sign of how they must have made him feel, never even flinching at how often Arthur features in them – and thought about it for a moment, then kissed him quick and full of promise and said, “Right, mate here’s what we’re gonna do,” or just left it with the kiss when it’s not a problem he knows how to solve. The times Merlin has kept his eyes closed and just pretended, how Gwaine has spent months ignoring it, acting as though he didn’t notice, silently allowing Merlin to destroy him from the inside out because it made Merlin feel that tiniest little bit better.

He doesn’t think he has ever hated anyone as much as he hates Gwaine right now. Not his mother, when she sent him to a city in a kingdom that would see him dead if it knew what he was. Not Will, when he chose to put Arthur’s life above his own, all on Merlin’s word. Not even Arthur, the night he killed Freya, when Merlin said goodbye to any chance of a happy life away from Camelot. He hates Gwaine more than he has ever hated anyone, even if he doesn’t hate him at all because the person he actually hates is himself.

“Merlin,” Lancelot says, almost silently, still sounding cautious but now standing almost next to him. “Merlin, Gwaine...” The sentence goes no further than that, and this time Merlin knows for certain that it is Lancelot’s choice to stop, but he doesn’t know why.

“Gwaine isn’t the problem,” he replies, and it is true but for the fact that it isn’t. The problem is Merlin, and yet without Gwaine there would be no problem at all. “Gwaine is...is...” Merlin falters, stumbling to a halt, and feels Lancelot put a tentative hand on his arm, in some misguided attempt at comfort. Merlin shakes it off, turns his back, making for the doorway so he can hide away and finish shattering where no one will witness it, where no one will try make him feel less like the horrible person he is. Lance follows him, grabbing his elbow less timidly this time.

“Let me go,” Merlin says, and hears the threat in his voice, a threat that he doesn’t want to be there but doesn’t know how to hide away. “Please, let go of me.”

“Go where?” Lancelot asks, “Why are you so worked up? This is good, is it not?”

This is such a typical thing for him, and Merlin loves Lancelot like a brother, he really does, but he wishes he knew which lines not to cross, wishes he knew what not to say and when things should be dropped for the good of everyone. “Gwaine was right,” he tells him, “It’s over. It has to be. Now get off.” Merlin tugs at his arm, trying to get away, staring down Lancelot as he shakes his head and tightens his grip, opens his mouth to ask why.

“I said, let me go!” Merlin demands, and the last word is a shout, but is something more, too. It is him, his magic, his control, breaking out of him with that final syllable. The pressure on his arm vanishes instantly, as Lancelot is propelled violently away from him, arcing through the air, his head hitting the wall with an audible thud.

And then he doesn’t get up again.

X

Merlin is frozen, both inside and out. His thoughts loop between _I never wanted this_ and _oh, gods, what have I done?_ and yet he is powerless to move, his feet firmly planted where they are. He knows healing spells, so many of them, but he is not very good at them and this is Lancelot, his friend, confidant, brother in all but blood and Merlin watches carefully, so carefully, but he can’t see his chest rising.

He takes a shaky step towards him, then a second, and he is running, barely breathing himself, dropping to his knees next to Lancelot’s very still...he can’t bring himself to think the word _body_ , even though that might be what it is. Merlin puts his hand to the back of Lancelot’s head, feeling the hot wetness there, and is not surprised by the smear of red he sees when he looks up at the wall.

Eyes back on Lancelot’s face, he chants something, anything, the words foreign to him in a way they have not been in years. He doesn’t know what they are, or what they mean, only stringing together the first things he can think of in the desperate hope that they will fix this. Over his magic, he hears footsteps, a loud gasp, and half-turns to explain that it isn’t what they think it is, that he never meant to do harm, that he is trying to undo what he has done. Before he can see who is there, something hits him on the back of the head, and he feels himself fall into a cold, empty darkness.

X

When Gwaine has finished cleaning (he uses the word fairly loosely), he goes to Gaius’ in search of Merlin. Who is not there, and, Gaius tells him, has not been there since that morning and – expressing his disapproval through the medium of eyebrow-dancing – if he and Merlin intend to keep their commitment to one another secret, Merlin should sleep in his own bed at least some of the time. The confirmation that Gaius knows that Gwaine is bedding his almost-son is so much more discomfiting than Arthur and Lance knowing that Gwaine can only flush and wordlessly open and close his mouth in a fishlike manner, slightly fearful. After all, Gaius has the king’s ear and, crazy or not, people still obey Uther when he gives them a command. There is an awful lot Gaius can do to make Gwaine’s life miserable if he decides he doesn’t like Gwaine and Merlin being together.

Gaius, mercifully, notices Gwaine’s discomfort. “Don’t worry, lad. It’s clear you care for him, and it would be hard to miss how much freer he’s been of late.”

Somewhat mollified – but still highly uncomfortable talking about this with _Gaius_ – Gwaine chooses to ignore this. He is halfway through asking if Gaius knows where Merlin actually is, seeing as he is not here, when the door opens so forcefully it slams into the wall behind with an audible cracking sound and Elyan charges in, out of breath and quite possibly scared of something.

“Gaius,” he gasps, hunched over with his hands on his knees. “Lancelot, my forge. Hurt. Merlin, Merlin-”

“Slow down, please, Elyan,” Gaius responds with remarkable calm; Gwaine is panicking. Not that he knows what has happened, but it involves Merlin, Lance, a pretty serious amount of fear and cannot possibly be good. “I cannot understand unless you start from the beginning.” For all that he seems unruffled, Gaius is already collecting together a pile of things he might need.

“Lancelot is hurt. Badly, really badly. Merlin attacked him. Magic. He needs help, Gaius.”

Gaius doesn’t even blink, showing no sign whatsoever that this statement is hitting him as hard as it has just hit Gwaine, even though it has to be. “You can tell me more on the way, Elyan. Gwaine, if you could bring the prince to meet us, please.”

“But-” Gwaine begins, only to be interrupted almost immediately.

“Find Arthur,” Gaius repeats, and there is something in his tone that convinces Gwaine not to argue further; Gaius is as concerned as he is, whether or not he shows it. Gwaine nods, and Gaius sweeps out, at a pace rather quicker than his usual one, taking Elyan with him and leaving Gwaine alone, desperately trying to think of ways in which this is not the terrible situation it appears to be.

Failing that, he resorts to following orders; he will not find out anything more without talking to Lance or Merlin, but if he shows up with Arthur he will only be sent away again.

He has the good luck to find Arthur in the first place he looks (although this is not truly all that surprising, since Arthur can be found dealing with state related papers in his chambers most afternoons). Not that Gwaine has any idea what to say to him; he doesn’t know what happened, so how can he hope to explain it to anyone else?

Gwaine is still thinking about what to say when Arthur, after a long moment of increasingly impatient staring, finally speaks. “I take it there is a reason for your presence, Sir Gwaine.” It is not a question, and Gwaine – still not in Arthur’s good books after his deliberate antagonism of a few weeks ago – knows better than to treat it as one.

“There is,” Gwaine says, hoping he sounds more composed than he thinks he does; Gwaine feels like he is constant competition with the prince, even if Arthur has no idea, and it’s not like Merlin is around to compare them anyway. Besides, if whatever has gone down between Merlin and Lance is what he thinks it is, he and Merlin probably aren’t he and Merlin now. He pushes that thought away – now is neither the time nor the place to address it – and continues. “I was, er, looking for Merlin.”

“He’s not here,” Arthur interrupts, sounding about as patronising as it is physically possible to be. “Surely you’ve noticed, bearing in mind how long you’ve been standing there gawping.”

“Yes, I’d noticed. Wasn’t looking for him here. He sent me off to clean your room – not this one, the other – he said he had to help Gaius with something. So I went to Gaius’ when I was done, and apparently Merlin lied because he was never there, said Gaius.”

“This _is_ going somewhere, isn’t it? Because I am rather busy running my father’s kingdom and I don’t have time to listen to your diatribes about my manservant’s many flaws.”

“Well, maybe if you stopped interrupting every time I pause for breath,” Gwaine snaps, then adds an apologetic, “Sire,” when he remembers whom it is he’s talking to. “Gaius was just saying...saying something, when Elyan came rushing in and said that...that Merlin had attacked Lancelot at the forge.” He pauses, just for a second, while Arthur finally gives him his full attention, looking away from the papers on the table in front of him, before adding the final – and undeniably most important – part. “With magic.”

Arthur stops midway through standing, making him look (Gwaine thinks, slightly gleefully, even with the rest of his life turning to shit around him) mildly deformed. “Ah,” he says, as he resumes motion. “Ah.”

“I don’t know, before you ask. I don’t know if Lance is okay, or Merlin, or why he did it.” This last part might be a lie, probably is, but until he knows for definite he’s keeping quiet. “Gaius went there with Elyan and made me come and get you, and so I am, and can we bloody go, please, because I need to know what happened.”

Arthur just looks at him, as if surprised either by his urgency or his rudeness (both of which are absurd, because he knows Gwaine and Lance are friends and Gwaine and Merlin are more, and Gwaine has never made any real effort to be polite to Arthur except for when he’s sure it’s going to get him something). Eventually, Arthur nods, announces, “Right,” and sweeps from the room as though moving was his idea, stopping the first made they encounter in the corridors. “Could you find Sir Leon and Sir Percival and tell them they are required immediately at the forge, please?” He asks – demands, really – and continues on his way before the startled girl can reply.

“Percival doesn’t know,” Gwaine hisses under his breath as he hurries to keep up (really, couldn’t he have been just a little taller? Or, for that matter, befriended a servant in a kingdom where the average height is somewhat closer to his own).

“He will now,” Arthur replies abruptly. “Depending on what has happened, everyone may soon know.”

This takes a moment more of walking to sink in, but when it does Gwaine finds himself gasp-shouting, “No!” and reaching for a sword he is not carrying.

“Be grateful,” Arthur states, sounding in that moment every bit his father’s son, “That you are not as armed as you want to be.” His voice softens slightly, almost sounding sympathetic. “I have no desire to see Merlin executed, but if he has deliberately used magic to harm another, I have no choice. The law is the law, and even I can only bend it so far.” He turns away from Gwaine, walking on in an ever tenser silence, and Gwaine can do nothing but follow behind him.

X

When Merlin wakes, it is in a room only slightly less dark than unconsciousness. His head is pounding, but when he reaches to feel for lumps on the back of it, he cannot get his hands there; he has been manacled, shackled to the wall behind him.

This clears the last of his mental fog and he realises where he is – not the dungeons, to his surprise, but the room where Uther locked Morgana, years ago now, when she argued with him about killing Gwen’s father – and why – Lancelot. Merlin nearly murdered Lance, may well have done so, smashing his skull against the wall in a fit of childish, selfish anger.

He is torn between the impulses of staying there and waiting for whatever or whoever is coming for him – he tried to _kill_ Lance – and breaking his way out with magic and finding out just what the result of his rage is. The first wins, barely, and only because someone will be along to deal with him soon enough and he can ask then.

He isn’t even all that sure he wants to know, anyway, because although he’s killed people before with his magic, they have never been people who didn’t deserve it. He has never taken an innocent life before, only killed when the lives of those he loves were in jeopardy, and if he has – oh, gods – if he has killed Lancelot, he really isn’t sure he’ll be able to live with the guilt.

But, he realises, if he has killed him, he won’t have to. Elyan knows Merlin was left with Lancelot, and Gaius will be able to tell nothing natural, nothing non-magical, could have flung him that hard against the wall, and Arthur may have tolerated Merlin having magic before, when he only used it for good, but killing a knight of Camelot, one of Arthur’s knights, is definitely not good. If Lancelot is dead, so is Merlin.

It is a fact he almost relishes.

With the thought of just how badly he has fucked up clanging around in his mind, Merlin resolves himself to waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

X

Gwaine walks from Gaius’ rooms – where Lancelot lies, oh-so-still, in Merlin’s bed – to the basement – in which Merlin is locked – and back again. He isn’t allowed in either room, and cannot make himself want to be anywhere else.

Leon stands a tired watch outside the basement door, turning him away each time he arrives. Kindly, always, but firmly; Gwaine knows he won’t budge, no matter how often he is there, knows it so surely he isn’t even really trying to persuade him to anymore. He had at first, for hours, until Arthur told him that he could either offer his help to Gaius or find himself confined to his room for the foreseeable future.

Liking the idea of solitary confinement even less than his current state, Gwaine had agreed to trying to help Gaius. That had turned out to be just as much of a stupid idea as anyone would have expected it to be, he thought, as Percival dragged him out after just a few minutes, when he entered Merlin’s room to see Gwaine standing next to Lancelot, swearing to finish the job Merlin started on him if Merlin is executed. Lancelot wasn’t exactly in any state to respond, but Arthur certainly had a lot to say about that as well. Since then, Percival has stood outside the door to Gaius’, slumped against the wall, though he straightens up and steps in front of the door each time Gwaine turns the corner to the corridor.

So he paces, waiting to be told something has changed, so that he can think, make plans, find some way to deal with this that doesn’t have Merlin burning at the stake.

X

It is hard to track the passage of time when the room one is in is almost entirely without natural light. For this reason, Merlin has no idea how long he has been waiting for, but he is sure that someone should have come to see him by now. And yet they haven’t.

So he summons Gwaine, ignoring the remorse that attacks him as he does so. Gwaine will not want to talk to Merlin, not after what he tried to do, may have done. And Merlin does not really want to talk to him, either, because he doesn’t know how to look him in the eye after complaining so much about Arthur, about loving Arthur, without ever realising how much Gwaine must be hurt by it. But Gwaine is the only one who has ever experienced Merlin taking control of his body and, Merlin hopes, the only one who won’t react too terribly to it. And even if he does, Merlin’s need to know if Lancelot is...how Lancelot is outweighs all of that.

So he summons Gwaine.

It is something he has done so many times that he barely needs to think about it. Which is why when Gwaine doesn’t appear, doesn’t walk through the door kicking and screaming, shouting all the filth he can imagine at Merlin, Merlin just assumes he made a mistake.

He tries again, this time concentrating on what he is doing. Or trying to do, because another long wait makes it clear that Gwaine is not coming.

It is at this point that Merlin begins to cry. He is in love with his closest friend, who in turn is in love with another of his closest friends (though at least she loves him back). He has just tried to kill a third friend, whose only crime was to tell him the truth; that the fourth and final of his best friends, who he has been having frequent and most enjoyable sex with for several months, is in love with him. The fact that Merlin has done almost as good a job of entangling himself in a romantic disaster as Helen of Troy is probably good enough reason for crying (after all, things hardly ended well for everyone involved there), but Merlin doesn’t see it this way. He just sees how Lancelot will never forgive him for treating Gwaine so shabbily, Gwaine will never forgive him for letting Lancelot tell him things he thought best left unknown, and none of them, Arthur, Gwen or Gwaine, will ever forgive him for his attempt on Lancelot’s life.

Mostly, though, he cries because he will never forgive himself.

X

“Why?” Gwaine asks. “Why can’t I just see him?”

Arthur, who has taken over Leon’s post outside Merlin’s prison, shakes his head. “You know why, Gwaine.”

“I’m not even asking to see him alone. You can supervise,” he says, desperate, because he hates that Merlin is locked in there on his own, whatever he may have done. “Everyone can, to make sure I’m not trying to get him out or anything. I just want to see him.”

“Not until we know more.”

“What more is there to know? Lancelot is-”

“You will wait, Sir Gwaine,” Arthur states, in his _what I say goes_ voice. “I suggest you join Percival and Leon at dinner, and then get some rest. You have my word that someone will find you, should something change.”

Gwaine treats this _suggestion_ with the contempt it deserves. “ _Rest_? You expect me to _rest_? Tell me, Arthur, if it was Gwen imprisoned like this, would you be able to rest?”

“ _When_ it was Guinevere in this situation, I was not, no.” Arthur looks at him with a discomforting level of speculation, and Gwaine almost turns to leave, just to get away from it. Almost. “However, I did not realise you considered the two situations comparable.”

“Because Gwen was innocent of whatever she was accused of?” Gwaine replies, and hears the challenge in his voice. “Am I not allowed to worry, just because Merlin really did use magic?”

“You may worry as much or as little as you deem appropriate,” Arthur says, sounding very sincere as he does so. “I was just not aware quite how much you loved him.”

Of all the things Gwaine imagined he would do today, confiding in Arthur is not one of them not by a long shot, yet he finds himself responding anyway. “Neither was he,” he says, resuming his pacing before Arthur can offer any comments in return.

X

Merlin cries until he can cry no more, and then he stops and starts to think again.

Gwaine has clearly found some way to avoid Merlin summoning him. He pushes down the tears this thought brings back up (because even when Gwaine wouldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t even go near him, he still would have been there if Merlin needed him. He would never have rejected Merlin so thoroughly that he wouldn’t even give him the option of talking to him) and carries on. After Gwaine, the next most logical person to summon would be Arthur, who has never had it done to him before but at least knows it is possible and will work out what is going on. Leon is his third choice, Gwen fourth, and then Lance – reluctantly, because he has no way of knowing whether Lancelot won’t arrive because Merlin’s magic isn’t working or because he isn’t able to.

Still nothing.

Deciding they must all have used the same thing as Gwaine, he moves on to people who do not know about his magic; Elyan and Percival first, then anyone else in the castle he can put a name and a face together for. Despairing completely, he tries to summon the king, because even if those in the know could somehow convince everyone else in Camelot to all some sort of spell to be worked upon them, Uther himself could never be persuaded.

When not even one person shows, Merlin makes one last attempt. Not to summon anyone, because he knows that will fail. He tries one of the earliest tricks he learnt, after moving things without words; he tries to produce a light. Just a little one, even a spark, a glimmer, the briefest flash ever would do.

It is this final, last-ditch resort, and the fact that nothing comes of it, that tells Merlin what he was avoiding accepting. He can no longer use magic.

This, Merlin admits, is not a realisation he is mentally equipped to deal with. He has had magic, or so he has been told, since the day he was born, and has certainly been using it for as long as he can remember. He could move objects before he could walk, could convey his wishes before he could talk, and was frequently caught, during his childhood, having conversations with things no one else could see (“Brings a whole new meaning to _away with the fairies_ ,” he once heard his mother say).

In one day, Merlin has lost everything, his friends, his freedom, his ability to protect Arthur. Anything that has ever mattered to him, almost, is gone, because he couldn’t control his temper, because he couldn’t see what should have been obvious and do something about it.

He is not sure how long he has been calculating the implications of his newfound inability when the door opens and a number of people walk in.

X

“Merlin?” The voice is as calm as it always is, patient, with just a tinge of disapproval. Gaius. It takes slightly longer for Merlin to identify the others present, because after so long in the darkness the light of their torch is blinding. Arthur, obviously, is there, and Gwaine and Leon, too – this he gathers when one dark shape takes a step forward, a second silhouette grabs him, and the first says, in a very distinct accent, “Get off, Leon. He isn’t going to hurt me.”

Merlin is heartened by this, very briefly, until his brain kicks in and he realises that he really does not deserve Gwaine’s trust in him after how much of a bastard he has been to him.

There is still a fifth unidentified person and he is, for a moment, terrified-relieved-unsure that it is Uther, but then Arthur produces a lantern, hustling everyone into the room, and he can see that it is Elyan. He takes that to mean that a seventh person in Camelot knows of his magic, but the supposition is largely irrelevant because right now the face Merlin most wants to see is not, for once, Arthur’s, and that face is not there.

“Lancelot?” he asks. “Gaius, is Lance okay? Is he...did I...? Is he alright?” Merlin cannot make himself say the words, just as he has been unable to make himself think them since he woke up. His meaning is clearly conveyed, though, since Gwaine answers.

“He’s fine, Merlin. You didn’t kill him.” Merlin relaxes slightly, but tenses again when Elyan adds, “You were bloody close, though.” He is vicious, angry, and Merlin knows he deserves it, but the rejection from a friend is excruciating and, Merlin thinks, the only way that pain can get any worse is when Gwaine jumps to his defence, the two of them arguing brutally, over Merlin and the truly terrible thing he has done.

“That is enough, both of you.” Arthur’s voice is enough to silence them, the power, the royalty, somehow audible. “Now, sit down, everyone. We need to talk, and we might as well be almost comfortable whilst we do so.” When they have all obeyed him, Gaius slowly and creakily, he continues. “Right. As established, Lancelot is still alive. He was unconscious for the best part of a day and a half, but seems to come out of the situation with nothing more than bruises. Gaius has recommended he remain under supervision for the next few days, otherwise he would have been here himself.”

Arthur clearly considers Lance a fool for this, and from Elyan’s snort and Leon’s disapproving headshake, they both agree with him. In fact, even Gaius looks doubtful; only Gwaine seems to be firmly on Merlin’s side, and he almost certainly wouldn’t be if he wasn’t so bloody love-struck. “It is only because Lancelot begged for quite some time that we allow you to explain,” Arthur continues firmly, “That your head is not currently distinct from the rest of your body, Merlin. So, please, explain.”

Three pairs of eyes turn expectantly to Merlin (Arthur and Gwaine were already watching him), and he swallows audibly. “Er,” he begins, then internally criticises himself for it, because for a speech that may possibly save his life, it isn’t a great way to begin. “I really can’t, ah, I can’t. I can’t explain, and I have no excuse.”

“Come on, Merlin, mate, you have to say something.” What Merlin wants to say is that he wishes Gwaine would shut the bloody hell up, because his mere presence is about the furthest thing from helpful Merlin can think of right now. Instead, he shrugs, hopelessly. “Oh, Merlin.” Gwaine turns to the rest of them. “Lance has been following Merlin for weeks, pestering him. Determined to talk to him about something, not willing to take no for an answer. Just generally being an annoyance. Not that that means he deserves to die, but you can’t say you can’t understand why he did it.”

“Gwaine, shut _up_ ,” Merlin shouts, and Gwaine’s head snaps around to look at him. Merlin finally meets his eyes, and is surprised by the spark of satisfaction there, because Gwaine has never shown any signs of the level of masochism necessary to be pleased by a loved one shouting at him. “That isn’t what happened, Arthur, I swear. I mean, yes, Lancelot has been trying to tell me something, but that _isn’t what happened_.”

Arthur arches a brow at him. “Then tell us what did happen, _Mer_ lin, and we’ll try to keep interruptions to a minimum,” he says, seconding Merlin’s glare at Gwaine. “From the beginning, if you please?”

“Okay, well. I was going to talk to Lancelot, because Gwen made me promise I would. And so I tracked him to the forge” – he leaves out the part where he sent Gwaine away on some phony task so he wouldn’t come looking for him, because even if they are over now (and how can Merlin allow them not to be?), he cannot face everyone knowing, _Arthur_ knowing – “and I told Elyan Gwen wanted to talk to him. And so...and so Lancelot said what he wanted to say, and it was something that I...I really didn’t want to know, and...” Merlin pauses, studiously avoiding looking at Gwaine, and takes a deep breath. “I lost control. I didn’t mean to hurt him, I really didn’t. I just had to leave, and he wouldn’t let me go, and I shouted at him and he hit the wall, hard, and there was blood and I _tried_ to help, I did, but I didn’t know how, and someone was there, and...that’s all I remember.” That, he thinks, is enough for now; he will explain about his magic, or lack thereof, later, when he knows it’s actually going to be an issue.

There is silence for a moment, before Arthur says, “Elyan?” Merlin is clueless, but apparently Elyan is not; he starts talking.

“Yeah, that’s sort of how it was, I think. The first bit, definitely. I went to find Gwen, only she said she didn’t know what Merlin was talking about. I went back to ask him why he lied, and he was kneeling on the floor with Lancelot in his lap, unconscious, and his eyes were...” That sentence stops there, as Elyan clearly cannot find a suitable way to describe Merlin’s eyes. “It was magic, and the words...I thought Lancelot was dead, or that Merlin was killing him, so I hit him with the shovel used to load the fires. Although I suppose you know all this, sire.”

“I do,” Arthur says, but tells Elyan to continue anyway, presumably for Merlin’s benefit.

“I went to find Gaius, because I thought it was more important to see if anything could be done for Lancelot than it was to lock up Merlin. I went back to the forge with him, while Gwaine went to find you.”

Merlin looks at Elyan, raising his eyes from the cuffs at his wrists for the first time since he finished his explanation. “Thank you, Elyan.”

Elyan looks back in disgust. “If it were up to me, I’d have handed you in to Uther. It’s Prince Arthur you should be thanking.”

“No, Elyan.” Merlin replies, hoping the sincerity in his voice is clear. “Thank you. Not because you didn’t turn me in to be killed, but because you put helping him first.” He knows, really, that it was fear of magic – the same fear that almost everyone less than five or six years older than Arthur and raised in Camelot has had forced upon them – that motivated Elyan to attack him, more than it was concern for Lancelot, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is grateful. Things could so easily have been what Elyan thought they were, and that Elyan would put helping a friend above dealing with a potentially dangerous sorcerer is heartening as much as it is foolish.

Elyan just blinks at him, looking slightly less unforgiving, and there is silence for a moment, until Arthur turns to Gaius. “In your opinion, medically speaking, how likely is it that Merlin’s story is true?”

Merlin would be offended – as Gwaine clearly is on his behalf, given the way he moves to stand, only to be stopped by Leon, sat next to him – if it weren’t for the fact that even this is more trust than he deserves.

Gaius also gives the question the contemplation it merits, though Merlin is pretty sure that he does not doubt Merlin’s word. “It seems to make sense, sire,” Gaius says, slowly, thoughtfully. “There was certainly more blood than a wound the size of Lancelot’s could account for, even given how heavily head wounds tend to bleed. The length of time for which he was unconscious, too, suggests a serious head injury, yet there was no evidence of anything more than a minor bump that I could detect.” He turns to Merlin, “I don’t suppose you know what spell you used to heal him, do you?”

Merlin shakes his head; he’d mostly been stringing words together, any words, in the desperate hope that they helped, and it is as much of a surprise to him as it is to anyone else that it was successful. Gaius nods, and continues, “Shame. It would have been useful to have. That spell – and Elyan’s decision to fetch me immediately – is probably the only reason Lancelot is still with us.”

All eyes return to Arthur, waiting for him to continue questioning someone, but he does not. Eventually, after Merlin has opened and closed his mouth several times, wanting to say something more but not knowing what, Arthur says, “Right,” and then stops, apparently just as wordless as Merlin. Gwaine also opens his mouth to talk, but shuts it very quickly when Merlin glares and Arthur arches a brow at him, again (he really is remarkably good at that, almost as impressive as Gaius).

“Right,” Arthur says again, and this time continues. “Merlin, have you tried using magic since you woke up?” When Merlin nods, Arthur asks, “And?”

“I couldn’t,” he says sadly. “Not a thing. I tried summoning pretty much everyone in the city, and nothing. I can’t use it at all.”

Arthur smiles, slightly triumphantly. “Good. It was something Gaius created, a potion of sorts, designed to suppress magic. We weren’t sure it would work on you; Gaius tells me your powers are somewhat greater than average.” He returns to contemplative silence, and Merlin thinks that perhaps there is something to what Gwaine once told him; Arthur’s thinking face does look remarkably like a pout.

“Perhaps, sire,” Leon says, “Perhaps we should move this conversation somewhere more pleasant. Your father will be wondering where you are, and will eventually come looking for you. This will not be easy to explain to him, since we have, after all, manacled your manservant to the wall, so unless you wish to explain Merlin’s magic and have him executed...” Gwaine winces as Leon trails off. Merlin does not; he has been permitted to break the law for quite some time already, and if Arthur decides this is one time too many, Merlin does not really have a whole lot of choice in the matter.

Arthur frowns. “Yes, I suppose we should move. Un-cuff him, Leon.”

“Arthur!” Elyan cries, forgetting his usual politeness – despite the fact that they are soon to be brothers-in-law, Elyan is almost unfailingly respectful to Arthur. “You can’t just let him go! He has magic, he tried to _kill_ Lancelot. You can’t-”

“I can and I _will_ , Sir Elyan. Merlin cannot use magic at the moment, and I’m certain myself and three of my best knights are perfectly capable of subduing him if he tries to run. Which you won’t, will you, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur’s voice is confident, as trusting as ever, and Merlin thinks he almost smiles at him.

Then his hands are free. He rubs at his wrists, expecting them to be raw, or at the very least reddened, but they are not, and he realises he was not actually cuffed as tightly as he could have been, as he _should_ have been. He wonders who was responsible for that small kindness, that stupidity, but then Leon tugs him, gently, to his feet, and supports him when his knees wobble. “Where to, sire? Your chambers?”

“I think that unwise, if we wish to keep this from my father. Gwaine?”

“No,” Merlin says, no less vehement for the fact that it comes out more as a croak. “Lancelot. I want to see Lancelot.”

Gaius nods. “My chambers, then? They should be private enough for this conversation, and Lancelot deserves a say in the matter, does he not?”

“Very well. Leon, if you would continue to assist Merlin, please, and Gaius go with them. The rest of us will follow shortly.”

Merlin is carefully helped up the stairs from the room, his right arm over Leon’s shoulder and Leon’s left around his waist, seeing true daylight for the first time in he’s not sure how long, trying to ignore the low conversation taking place in the room they have just left.

X

Gwaine isn’t entirely sure how he ended up here, bickering in lowered voices with Elyan and Prince Arthur; his lack of sleep has left the last day and a half something of a blur.

Percival, whilst really rather unimpressed by Gwaine’s threatening Lancelot, took the news that Merlin has magic and used it to attack Percival’s closest friend in the city spectacularly well; so well that Gwaine wondered if Lance hadn’t already told him about Merlin being a sorcerer. Only briefly, though, and then he remembered Lance is nothing if not honourable and would never betray a secret that important, even to one of his oldest friends. Elyan, of course, is still fuming over the fact that Merlin has used magic and has yet to be executed for it. Gwaine is fuming too, because stupid royal arseholes and their oh-so-noble knights had forbidden him from seeing Merlin until now, when it has finally been ascertained that Lance will make a full recovery. And then there’s the fact that all this could easily have been avoided if Lancelot, the stupid prick, had just listened to Gwaine when he told him to keep his bloody mouth shut.

Gwaine is pissed, and doesn’t see any possibility of becoming less pissed in the future, because even if they all manage to convince Elyan that Merlin doesn’t deserve death (and he’s pretty sure even Arthur is on Merlin’s side here, which should sort of help matters), Merlin wouldn’t even look at him when they were in the same room, except for when Gwaine goaded him into defending himself and he glared. Gwaine cannot imagine looking at someone with that much hatred (except, of course, he probably has in the past, but right now he is just hurting and _mad_ ).

“I can’t believe you’re just letting him go!” Elyan rants at Arthur, which is decidedly a bad idea; ranting at royalty tends to be frowned upon, particularly by the royalty in question.

“I,” announces Arthur, cold and angry, “Am not _just letting Merlin go_. I am allowing him, under supervision, to visit a friend and determine his well-being.”

“A friend whose well-being is only in question because he attacked him. And with magic, which no one seems all that bothered about.”

“Of course no one is all that bothered, you arse,” Gwaine jumps in before Arthur can say anything, which of course brings the prince’s gaze of fury down on him. “Apart from Percival and you, we all already knew. And none of us reacted like idiots when we found out.” Well, Arthur wasn’t exactly cool and collected, but he never seriously suggested Merlin’s death.

“Gwaine, you are not helping matters,” Arthur snaps, “So if you could keep quiet it would be greatly appreciated.” Elyan smirks, but stops quickly when Arthur transfers his attention to him. “As for you, Elyan; contrary to what you seem to think, I know exactly Merlin has done. I also know that he is the only reason any of us – and the city as a whole, for that matter – are still standing. Furthermore, Sir Leon, Lancelot, Gwaine and I witnessed Merlin swear an oath that would bring about the total destruction of everything and everyone he has ever loved if he uses his magic in a way that causes harm to the kingdom. What is of importance here is what Merlin has done, not the means by which he did it.”

That this is very similar to the argument Leon used to convince Arthur to calm down when he first found out is not lost on Gwaine – or, apparently, Arthur, if the _don’t say a word_ look he sends in Gwaine’s direction is any indication. “Now,” Arthur continues, “If you think you can both be civil and keep your disproportionate biases to yourselves, I believe we should make sure Merlin has not overpowered Sir Leon, Percival and Gaius in order to finish the job he started on Lancelot.”

Gwaine surprises himself by laughing, while Elyan scowls and Arthur looks rather pleased with himself. Elyan leaves the room first, still furious but no longer voicing it, the prince following in a much less uptight fashion, and Gwaine bringing up the rear, wondering just how much of what happened Arthur has managed to put together, if he is so clearly proud to have made Gwaine laugh.

X

At first glance, Gaius’ rooms seem to be empty, and Merlin wonders why he has been brought here. Then he hears the voices coming from his bedroom and pushes open the door to see Lancelot sitting in his bed, Percival on a chair next to it, the pair of them playing a game involving sheep’s bones that Merlin has never understood the rules to. They both look up as he enters, Percival standing with a hand on the hilt of his sword, only relaxing when Leon and Gaius follow Merlin in.

“Merlin,” Lance says, smiling apologetically.

Merlin feels his knees shake for a second before they give out entirely, Leon’s timely interruption the only thing preventing him from ending up in an untidy pile on the floor. It is relief that hits him, makes his bones light and insubstantial, because even though Gwaine said Lancelot was fine, Merlin couldn’t let himself believe it until he saw the proof for himself.

“Lance,” he gasps. “I’m so sorry, Lancelot. They said you were fine, but I – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He hears his voice catch, and only then notices the dampness on his cheeks.

“Stop crying, fool,” Lance says, though his own eyes are looking suspiciously bright. “I know that, and I am sorry too. I should not have pushed you to talk to me. I should have listened to – well, I am sorry.” He gestures to the seat beside him, and Merlin takes a shaky step towards it, only to be stopped by Percival. Not angrily, but he has clearly been asked to keep an eye on Lancelot and intends to do so. Nothing is said in response to his questioning look over Merlin’s shoulder, but some sort of reply is given because he nods and lets Merlin past.

“I did not tell them,” Lance says conspiratorially, when Merlin is sitting next to him. “What it was that I said to you. They wanted me to, Arthur and Gaius in particular. Only Gwaine knows.” This is said in the same tone, as if there aren’t three other people in the room watching Merlin’s every move.

Merlin takes his hand and squeezes it in a way that he hopes conveys gratitude. Lancelot nods, and says – at a normal volume, to let the others know they can listen again –, “So where is Prince Arthur, then?”

Leon answers. “He is, I believe, attempting to get any arguments out of the way now, so that the conversation we are about to have can be carried out among adults rather than squabbling children.” Merlin feels oddly chided by this remark, even though he wasn’t involved in the argument at all (beyond being the reason for it, he supposes). “He, along with Sir Elyan and Sir Gwaine, should be here shortly.”

“In light of which,” Gaius continues, “We should probably find some more chairs, since I suspect this will not be a short discussion.” Leon follows Gaius from the room obediently and Percival only hesitates briefly before also doing so. Merlin can hear them murmuring over the clatter of furniture, trying to work out how much is required for the eight of them to sit comfortably and then, when comfortable is clearly not an option, how much will fit in Merlin’s room.

“I really am sorry, Merlin,” Lancelot tells him, eyes glowing with sincerity. “I wish I had not, and not just because of this.” He makes a half-hearted gesture that is somehow supposed to encompass the whole situation; Lancelot bedridden, Merlin no longer in fear for his life but certain to face some kind of punishment, Elyan spitting mad, and Gwaine...well, he isn’t sure how Gwaine is, but it can’t be good. “Gwaine said – he said that you needed this, him, and that you would leave him if you knew. I thought he was just being...I do not know what I thought, other than that you should know how he feels. I should have listened to him.”

Merlin smiles, but doesn’t answer immediately, not until he is sure he knows what it is he wants to say. “I’m...glad, that you didn’t. I deserved to know, even if I didn’t – don’t – want to. I can...I can do the right thing now. Thank you, Lancelot.”

Lancelot looks at him for a moment with almost unbearable sympathy. He opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by Percival and Leon carrying one bench, Gwaine and Elyan a second, and Arthur and Gaius supervising intently.

With some negotiation, they are all sitting – cramped and uncomfortable, but definitely sitting. Merlin offers his chair up to Arthur, who in turns offers it to Gaius, who sits upon it gratefully. Lancelot, of course, is still in Merlin’s bed, Gwaine, Leon and Arthur on one bench, Merlin, Percival and Elyan on the other. Merlin is truly impressed by Leon’s ability to manage them all without anyone noticing he’s doing it; he’s pretty sure no one else saw him indicate to Percival to take the seat between Merlin and Elyan, then carefully place himself between Gwaine and Arthur (and Merlin probably wouldn’t have noticed that if he didn’t already know about Leon and Gwaine trying to keep Lance and Arthur apart during training). He is also worryingly certain that Sir Leon knows pretty much everything that happens in Camelot, and that on the rare occasion he is confronted with something he didn’t already know, he is nearly flawless at hiding his surprise.

“Right,” says Arthur, looking around at all of them and apparently returning to the state of mind in which repeating this simple word is a good idea, because he says it again. “Right.”

Leon, saint that he is, and somewhat better at speaking than their collective lord and master, continues for him. “We have, I believe, established what Merlin has done and, if not the precise reason why Merlin did it, at least the general idea.” Merlin is not quite too busy shuffling guiltily to notice Gwaine and Lancelot doing the same, but it is a close thing. “What remains, then, is to decide what to do with him.” If Leon had sounded more disapproving, Merlin would have flinched, but he doesn’t; he just sounds kind, as if he has already judged and forgiven Merlin. He is not comfortable with it, not at all, but seeing as the alternative to being forgiven too quickly is to be executed, Merlin cannot bring himself to actually complain, even though quite a large part of him tells him that he should.

“Quite,” Arthur replies, regaining coherent speech. “In light of the fact that I do not intend to continue my father’s strict anti-magic regime when I reign, I think executing a friend who has saved all our lives at least once is perhaps not the best course of action.” He sighs when Elyan looks displeased. “However, I will put it to a vote, since I am aware not everyone agrees with me.” Elyan looks mollified, even though it is clear that whilst Arthur is offering a vote, chances are he will do what he wants to regardless of the outcome. “Those in favour of letting Merlin live, raise your hands.”

It is impossible to say whether Gwaine or Lancelot raises their hand first. Gaius, Leon and Arthur are less enthusiastic, the former due to his age, the others as a matter of decorum. Percival hesitates slightly, but agrees before Lance has the chance to turn a glare on him. Only Elyan’s hand remains firmly down.

Arthur nods, looking both proud and disappointed. “Okay, good. However, Merlin, I do not think you should be entirely unpunished. It seems you did not break your oath, yet you did, in a fit of temper, attack one of my best knights. Were you a normal man, fighting by non-magical means, I would not be wasting my time with your petty disputes.” Usually, Merlin would chide Arthur for referring to the near-death of a man as a _petty dispute_ , but he doesn’t now, can’t, won’t, because Arthur is letting him live and that is more than he deserves. “You are not normal, though, so I find myself forced to act.”

He lapses into silence. No one else speaks, unsure if Arthur has finished entirely or if he has just paused to collect his thoughts.

As the minutes go by, the latter seems increasingly improbable, and Merlin’s unspoken prayers for someone, anyone, to say something are finally answered when Sir Leon – who is now raised from the status of saint and is almost certainly a child of the gods – asks, ever so politely, “Might I make a suggestion, sire?” At Arthur’s nod of agreement, he turns to Gaius. “Are there any detrimental effects known to come from prolonged usage of the potion you have given Merlin?”

Gaius looks pensive. “I do not believe so, but I shall have to consult my books to be certain.”

“And how long do the magic-blocking properties of this potion last?”

The pensive looks morphs steadily into a frown. “Two to three days, at the potency of this particular blend. There are both weaker and stronger versions available.”

Leon finishes his suggestion, somewhat unnecessarily; Merlin has already worked out where this is going, as – he thinks – have Arthur and Lance, if their respective thoughtful and grim expressions are anything to go by. “I propose, then, that Merlin take this potion as often as is required for his magic to remain subdued, for a suitable duration of time.”

Faces around the room range from approving smirks (Elyan) to blatant disgust (Lancelot). Merlin has resumed his former plan of avoiding looking at Gwaine as much as possible, but he imagines his face to be a mirror of Lance’s, if not stronger. It is not Gwaine who speaks first in Merlin’s defence, though.

“Are you mad?” asks Lancelot, sounding both polite and proper and completely disparaging (a combination up until this moment universally thought to be impossible). “Merlin is defenceless without his magic. _Camelot_ is defenceless without his magic.”

“Camelot managed perfectly well before Merlin and his magic, Sir Lancelot,” Leon replies reasonably. “As for Merlin being defenceless, I see no reason why he cannot join us for training. It will do him good to learn how to defend himself without the use of his gifts.”

Merlin is not entirely sure of this idea; not so much the suppression of his magic – although he is not by any means fond of that, he accepts it is necessary to provide a feeling of security in the others – but training with the knights. He has done that before, sort of, and it was neither fun nor useful. Still, he will bear the punishment they see fit without complaint, when it is so much less than he deserves.

“With all due respect, Sir Leon,” Lancelot resumes his point, “Camelot was not being attacked by two angry witches before Merlin arrived.”

Leon nods, taking this on board, but says nothing. Arthur does, however. “A less potent version of the potion, then, one that lasts a day, possibly less. That should give it time to wear off if we find ourselves facing a magical threat beyond Gaius’ ability to handle.” When no one objects, he continues. “A vote, then. Those in favour of Merlin’s powers remaining bound, raise your hands.”

Gaius raises his hand with visible reluctance, and Lancelot and Gwaine keep theirs lowered. Leon votes in favour of his own plan, as do Arthur and Percival, whilst Elyan’s face indicates that this punishment is acceptable only if no harsher one is under consideration.

“Five in favour, two against. Very well. I suggest we reconvene to discuss this further in a week.” There are murmurs of agreement, though none seem to be required. “I see no further need to continue this conversation. Gaius, if you could begin preparing a less potent potion, please, and give Merlin another dose of the one we have available at the moment. Sir Leon, I would appreciate your assistance with some state matters. I will see you back at work tomorrow, Merlin, and the rest of you in the courtyard at the usual time.” With that, Arthur departs, Leon and Gaius following, leaving behind four knights, a temporarily powerless warlock, and a very uncomfortable silence.

X

Gwaine is not entirely sure where they go from here. He almost wishes that Arthur had given them instructions as he did with Gaius and Leon, even though he hates following the blond prat’s orders, because at least then he would know what to do.

After a minute or two of silence, Merlin crosses the room to take the seat recently vacated by Gaius. Gwaine tries to hide his...something, he isn’t sure what, because sorrow and guilt and jealousy and grief all seem too small and too singular to describe what he is feeling right now, as Merlin takes the hand of the man he almost killed.

He has had people accuse him of being cold, without feelings, before, and he almost certainly was, for years. Because he felt things, but only selfishly; anger when someone got between him and what he wanted, happiness when he got there first, concern when everything went to shit and he thought that it would work out with him dead or worse. He was never jealous, really, because no one ever had something he wanted so much that he couldn’t just find something else he wanted more. He has never grieved, because he never cared for anything enough to be saddened by its loss. He has never felt guilty, because it never mattered to him what others think of how he lived.

And now he does; now he feels everything and nothing, alive and dead and so, so angry at anyone and everyone and mostly himself that he thinks he might explode if he doesn’t find some way to rid himself of all the love and hate that fills him.

“I’m hungry,” Percival says, and Gwaine contemplates proposing to him. “Do you want food, Lancelot? Merlin?” The second name seems to be something of an afterthought, but Lance still smiles approvingly at him, and there is a semblance of appreciation in Merlin’s eyes.

“Yes, please,” Merlin answers, almost meekly. Lance nods, and Elyan adds, “I’ll have something as well, if you’re offering.”

Percival looks at Gwaine in a way that is both an offer and a request for assistance (clearly, being silent so much of the time has lent him an impressively vocal array of facial expressions).

Gwaine, grateful for both an excuse to leave the room and a reason to come back again, says, “I’ll help you out, mate. If you think you three can manage not to cause any more trouble before we get back.” He hopes it comes off as a joke, but the room-wide wince sort of suggests it doesn’t. “Okay. I’ll just go, then.” He doesn’t flee, he _doesn’t_ , no matter how much it looks like he does.

Well, okay, the fact that he has to pause while _Percival_ catches up maybe implies running away, but he can pretend.

Thankfully, Percival isn’t the type to make meaningless conversation, so he doesn’t ask Gwaine why he ran (or any of the other questions people have been wanting to ask him since Merlin accidentally attacked Lancelot). Indeed, their walk to the kitchen is quiet, peaceful – Gwaine would almost be relaxed, if it wasn’t for the churning in his gut and the clamour of voices in his head. He hopes his face is calm enough that the former is unnoticeable, and tries to ignore the latter; whatever his brain keeps telling him, he knows it’s not that the thought of Gwaine loving Merlin is so terrible that Merlin felt the need to literally (almost) kill the messenger.

Still, it is a far from comfortable situation they are all in now.

Gwaine does notice when they reach the kitchens, but it doesn’t really register until Perce’s elbow plants itself – with not inconsiderable force – in his side. He looks up to see a cook glaring at them impatiently, because apparently Perce has used up his daily quota of words so it’s up to Gwaine to say what they want.

“Food for five, please.” Never bite the hand that feeds you, his mother told him once, and it’s a rule he’s followed carefully since then, extending it to include general politeness to anyone who comes into contact with his meals.

“And you couldn’t eat at lunchtime like everyone else, could you?” the cook snaps, and then waits for an answer (Gwaine had taken the question to be rhetorical).

“We were otherwise occupied. Sorry.” The woman still wants more, apparently, so Gwaine tries to think up a reason that doesn’t give away too much, settling for, “We were helping Prince Arthur with something, and only just got the chance to get something. Please.”

The woman states a little longer, then goes to gather food for them. Gwaine never knew how hard it was to get food from Camelot’s kitchens outside of mealtimes; even with as little money as his family had, he’s certain it was never that difficult at home.

The bag of food they are presented with is somewhat lighter than he was expecting, so he opens it to find a few slices of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a couple of apples; enough to feed two men, maybe three if they’re not too hungry. He shows the fare to Percival, who – helpfully – shrugs. There is nothing to do but brave the angry cook again. “We asked for food for five, I think?”

“That’s what you’ve got,” she replies, sounding even sharper than before. “There’s rationing on.”

Percival’s face is a picture of confusion, and Gwaine says, “First we’ve heard of it.”

“First you’ve...” the woman seems more than a little incredulous. “Where’ve you been eating, upstairs with the toffs?”

“Yeah, actually,” Gwaine laughs, because of course she has no idea who they are, what with their lack of uniforms and his sounding far from noble. “Sir Gwaine, an’ this is Sir Percival. We’re-”

“The prince’s knights, yes. I’ve heard your names before, particularly yours, though not for a while.” Gwaine breaks eye-contact, as her expression makes it clear in just what context she has heard his name. “Bollocks. I’ll just got find you more food, and you can forget I said anything.” She is suddenly all smiles, snatching the food bag back from Gwaine and bustling off.

She returns quickly, the bag somewhat heavier than it was, shoving it at them and backing away. Gwaine, not yet satisfied, passes the bag to Percival and mutters, “Take that back, would you? Give Gaius my share, and tell them I’ll be there later. Want to find out what’s going on here first.”

Perce nods and leaves, and Gwaine presses through the kitchen staff after the cook who served them. He catches up to her before she can escape through a side door leading somewhere he doesn’t know, grabbing her wrist to stop her moving. “So, what’s this about rations, then?” he asks, mildly aggressively, then backs down when he sees that her eyes are wet. “Why are you crying, eh?”

She shows him a terrified face for a second, then masks it well. “It’s nothing, Sir Gwaine. I was chopping onions earlier, for tonight’s soup.”

Gwaine, being an expert bullshitter himself, can spot it from miles away – not, of course, that this takes all that much expertise to spot. “Now now, love. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

“Mary,” she mumbles under her breath, as if hoping he’ll mishear her.

“Mary,” he repeats. “Now, then, Mary, I’m not really sure that lying to me is a good idea.” He leans in a little, offering her his best smile, knowing he won’t do any more than flirt but willing to pretend if necessary to find out what he wants to know. She dabs her eyes with her sleeves, mouth tilting up at the edges, just a little. “That’s better. So, what’s this about rationing, and why aren’t I allowed to know?”

She tells him, slowly and softly, checking over her shoulder frequently. He smiles whenever she pauses, trying to hide the anger steadily growing in his stomach. He thought Camelot was different, that the nobility here were _actually noble_. So much for that idea.

“And Prince Arthur?” he says when she’s done. “What does he think of this?”

“He doesn’t know, sir. You won’t tell him, will you, please?” Her fear, which had mostly abated during her story, is back in full force now. “The king...King Uther said that anyone caught telling Prince Arthur would be executed. Please, don’t say anything to him. _Please_.”

“I won’t,” he lies, mostly to stop her panicked begging; the first thing he’s going to do now is find Arthur and get him to bloody well fix this. Still, Mary looks happy with his lie, so he smiles and bids her goodbye, trying to ignore the guilt her gratitude inspires in him.

X

When Percival and Gwaine have gone, Lance turns to look at Elyan – though, thankfully, keeps hold of Merlin’s hand, as if aware of how much he still needs the contact, the confirmation of continued life and friendship. And then he waits. And waits, and waits.

Elyan looks increasingly uncomfortable, with both the long staring and the complete silence. Eventually, he cracks, when it finally sinks in that Lancelot isn’t going to say anything.

“What?” he snaps.

“I am waiting,” Lancelot replies simply. This, Merlin thinks, is sort of stating the obvious.

“For what?”

Lance gives him an _are you really that stupid?_ look, and when Elyan’s expression of blank confusion seems to suffice as an affirmative, he elaborates. “I am waiting for you to explain, because maybe then you can make this all okay.”

Merlin is really rather baffled by all of this, and it doesn’t seem to be making a whole lot more sense to Elyan, who answers, “I’m sorry?”

“That, I suppose, is a start, but it is not really me you should be apologising to.”

“What are you talking about, Lancelot?” Merlin asks, before Elyan can voice a similar inquiry.

“What do you think I am talking about, Merlin?” Lance barely pauses in his glaring to look at him, and then his attention is straight back on Elyan. “You wanted to kill him.”

“And he wanted to kill you!”

Lancelot only sighs in response to his anger, speaking softly, calmly. “No, he did not. Trust me, Elyan, I care about my life enough that if a mad sorcerer wanted me dead, I would not be arguing to keep him alive. What Merlin did was not deliberate. It was not even me he was angry at, was it?”

It takes Merlin a moment to realise that this is directed at him. When he does, he finds himself without words anyway, and settles for shaking his head.

Lance continues. “Merlin lost control, just for a moment. He was angry at himself, because...well, it is up to him if he wants to say why. But the rest of us are willing to accept this. The problem is that you are not, and I do not understand why.”

“You don’t understand? _I_ don’t understand. I don’t understand why _he_ gets to break the strictest law in the kingdom and you all skip around saying he didn’t mean to do anything wrong.”

“He did not,” Lance says, even as Merlin shakes his head and wants to agree with Elyan; regardless of where this argument is going, Merlin knows that what he did was wrong, seriously so, and in the face of that fact it doesn’t really matter whether or not he actually intended to do it.

“Yes, he _did_. Or do people often lose control of their emotions and spontaneously develop the ability to use magic?”

Lancelot blinks at him.

“Yeah, I thought not. How many years has he been doing magic? How long have people lied for him? How many have _died_ because of magic while he gets away with nothing more than a couple of months without it?”

This serves to do more in explain Elyan’s anger than almost anything else could have, Merlin thinks (although Lancelot, not being around at the time, finds it to be less clarifying). “Your father?” Merlin asks, trying to sound as non-confrontational as possible.

“My father was innocent. Uther killed him anyway. Why should you get to live, when no one else does?”

There is no real answer Merlin can give to this question, because it is all so horribly unfair that Uther’s mistakes should bring about so much misery, so many people, innocent or guilty, good or evil, all paying the price for Arthur’s life and Igraine’s death, and it is even more unfair that Merlin should live when they do not. Yes, he is Arthur’s friend, but then Gwen is to be his queen. Yes, he has saved their lives with his magic, but Gwen’s father was only an unwitting, accidental accomplice. There is nothing at all that he can say, because it is _wrong_.

“Arthur is different,” Lancelot says, and Merlin remembers telling those words to others, and thinking them himself, so often followed by the thought _things will be better when he is king_ , even when he wasn’t sure they would. “He tried to save your father. He has tried to save others. Nothing he says or does with ever bring back those who are dead. He can only do this, what he is doing now; making sure no one else dies because of his father or his sister, if they do not deserve it.”

Of course, no words will ever make things okay, because, as Lancelot said, the dead are dead. Perhaps this isn’t such an irreversible state as one would think, but Merlin has seen enough dead men rise from the grave to know that he doesn’t want to add to their numbers. The promise of an end to the injustice of Uther’s reign cannot undo what has happened, but maybe it is enough to help Elyan feel less betrayed (after all, Merlin thinks, and kicks himself internally for doing so, it’s not like Elyan was all that close to his father anyway).

“I know,” Elyan replies to Lancelot. “I know what he’s doing, and why. Understanding something and being happy about it are not the same thing.”

This seems to Merlin to be an entirely unnecessary statement; he and Lancelot know more than anyone could want to about terrible, unhappy, unavoidable problems. Silence, though, seems to be for the best.

X

Arthur, it turns out, is as easily locatable as he was the last time Gwaine searched for him. Sir Leon is still with him; a good thing, too, because sometimes the prince sorely needs a voice of reason (usually Merlin’s burden to bear) and what with Gwaine feeling the need to sock the king in the face, mental instability or not, that voice is not going to be his.

He knocks on Arthur door, but enters before he gets a reply, too antsy to wait. “We have a problem, sire.”

“Oh, for fu- I’ve not been gone an hour. You cannot possibly be here to tell me there’s been another near death amongst the lot of you in that time.”

“No, it’s-”

“Good,” Arthur cuts in. “You can handle it amongst yourselves, then. I’m busy.”

Gwaine, in a moment of unprecedented stupidity – and he has done some impressively stupid things throughout his life, more so in the past few months than all the years before them – steps forward and snatches the quill from the prince’s hand as he goes to return to his papers.

Arthur himself is too stunned respond, but Leon makes a move for his sword. Gwaine drops the quill _quickly_. “Sorry,” he says, trying to actually look it, then continues speaking in the hope that his next words will distract them from what he has just done. “The castle kitchens are rationing food.”

Arthur visibly thinks for a moment, as if trying to recall whether he has heard or read anything on the matter. “No, I’d have known about that. You must be mistaken.”

“Yeah, I’m not. Was just there with Percival. Cook we spoke to thought we were servants; that’s how I found out. It’s only for the lower classes, not nobles. I don’t know who knows, but your father is threatening to execute whoever tells you.” Gwaine thought nothing of this threat when Mary told whim; of course he was going to tell Arthur, though he would do so without mentioning names. Not, however, it is his neck on the line, and from Arthur’s face he is apparently doing something very brave rather than just what he is obligated to do.

“Okay,” Arthur says, face grim. “Why is food being rationed?”

“Blight on crops. Not all of them, I was told. Just the outer regions, but it’s moving towards the city. Closing in. There’s enough to last the winter, if we’re all rationed and what’s saved gets stored properly, but...” he trails off there. To go any further would be to criticise the king, and although there is a definite anti-Uther sentiment going around, no one is foolish enough to express such views in front of his son.

“This blight is natural, I take it?”

“Your father certainly thinks so. And, ‘cause I know it’ll be your next question, none of us knew. We would’ve told you. Not Merlin or Gwen either; he has breakfast with me, lunch and dinner with all of us, and Gwen eats with Elyan or you. They aren’t really servants, anyway, everyone knows that. They’re exempt as well.”

“Hmm.” Arthur stacks his papers neatly then stands. “Thank you, Gwaine. Go back to what you were doing. I’ll deal with this. Leon, if you could come with me, please.” Arthur, unlike Gwaine, is not angry; he just looks weary, and sort of sad.

Gwaine wants to protest, to go with them to confront the king, but he sees Leon shaking his head behind Arthur’s back, so he just leaves, heading back to Merlin’s.

He finds the silence there has abated somewhat. Merlin and Lance are talking almost happily, and even Elyan is adding something occasionally. Perce is quiet, but then he usually is, unless he’s drunk. He shoots a questioning look at Gwaine, and Lance smiles. “What kept you, mate?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing. Had to check something, speaking to Arthur. He’s taking care of it.”

“‘It’?” Elyan asks. “What ‘it’?”

“It’s fine. He’ll explain later, or tomorrow. Don’t worry about it.” Gwaine could explain himself, but why deny Arthur the privilege, particularly when doing so will sort of suggest he’s the one who told Arthur, and he’s rather too fond of his life to let more people than necessary know that fact.

Merlin looks at him speculatively, clearly wanting to ask more, but he doesn’t. Amazingly, he pulls off the speculation without making eye contact, though that might be because Gwaine won’t do much more than glance at him from the corner of his eye.

Conversation resumes while Gwaine is too preoccupied with not looking at Merlin to work out what they’re talking about. He ignores most of what is said, trying instead to plan for the time – inevitable as it is – when he will have to talk to Merlin without anyone unaware of the situation there to act as a buffer. He is sure that as soon as Elyan and Percival depart, Lance will start talking and not stop until Gwaine and Merlin join in.

He could leave first, he supposes, but he won’t, for reasons he doesn’t quite get himself, let alone expecting anyone else to understand.

Eventually, eventually, the sky darkens and Gwaine’s stomach beings to growl.

“Gwaine,” Lancelot says, “Did you not have lunch?” His voice is full of reproach, and Gwaine would call him a hypocrite for his concern now, after what he’s done recently, if he didn’t know that all that was motivated by concern as well, misplaced thought it may have been.

“No?” And why that comes out as a question, he hasn’t a bloody clue.

Lance sighs, and Gwaine is simultaneously touched by the fact that he cares and pissed off because he is not a child. “Go on, then. They will be serving up pretty soon. All of you go, in fact; if you found it hard to get one meal from the kitchens, imagine how hard it will be to get a second.”

Elyan obeys without question, Percival thinks for a moment first. Only Merlin seems truly reluctant to leave.

“Go, fool,” Lance tells him. “I promise not to expire while left unsupervised. You do not need to come back tonight, either. Gwaine will bring me food when he has finished eating, and I will be back on my feet tomorrow.”

Gwaine rolls his eyes at the order, but knows he’ll do it. Of course he will, because whatever Lancelot wants to talk about will be far easier to face than the conversation he knows he will have with Merlin afterwards. “Come on, then,” he says, deliberately not watching as Merlin hugs Lance before they all leave the room.

X

Dinner is uneventful in the way that precious few meals are, and the amount of food on the tables is no less than it usually is. No one comments as Gwaine stacks a plate high – he has, after all, not eaten since breakfast, and he didn’t have much then, or the day before – until he passes it across the table to Merlin.

He ignores Elyan’s questions and Merlin’s complaints, saying, “You should eat that. Might be that last decent meal you get for a while.” He isn’t all that concerned with how odd this is; they will understand his cryptic remarks soon enough, and he has spent more than one night counting the ridges of Merlin’s spine or tracing his fingers along his ribs.

Halfway through his own plate (less stacked than the one he gave Merlin, but not by much), a soft voice over his left shoulder tells him to, “Budge up, please.” He does so, allowing Sir Leon to sit on the bench beside him.

“You’ll want to keep your head down, Gwaine,” Leon murmurs. “Arthur didn’t tell Uther who told him about the rationing, but the king will be making inquiries. If anyone remembers seeing you make your way from the kitchens straight to Arthur’s chambers before their confrontation...Well, it’s best for all concerned that you don’t draw any attention to yourself.”

“Not a complete idiot, Leon. What’s being done about it all?” Gwaine keeps his voice equally low, aware that Percival is listening in on his other side. Merlin and Elyan opposite them are talking with almost as little hostility as they ever have, ignorant to all the muttering, and Gwaine wonders what was said while he was gone that served to push Elyan into understanding.

“City-wide rationing starts tomorrow, for everyone. Breakfast will be as usual; Arthur isn’t making the announcement until mid-morning, although the kitchen staff are being told tonight. Have you told-?”

“Nah. Didn’t know what Arthur wanted known, so I thought it best not to say.”

Leon nods. “Wise.”

Gwaine tries to decide whether he should be offended by the tone of surprise, settling finally for not; he knows he doesn’t particularly give an impression of intelligence, and surprising people by surpassing their expectations is far better than surprising them by falling short.

When he finishes eating, he prepares another plate to take to Lancelot. He claps Leon on the shoulder as he stands, then leans down to say goodbye. “Thanks for filling me in, mate. See if you can get this lot to have seconds, yeah? No point in it going to waste, particularly with the future looking less than impressive.” He’s heard from Merlin that anything left from the knights’ tables goes to feed the pigs; servants caught taking food without permission are regarded as thieves and punished appropriately. Gwaine smiles, grimly, and says at a normal volume, “Right, then. See the lot of you tomorrow,” before making his way once again to Merlin’s room.

Gaius is not in his rooms; Gwaine has no idea where he is, or what good a court physician who is rarely where you’d expect him to be is, but that isn’t really any of his business, he supposes. Lancelot, however, is dozing lightly when Gwaine taps on Merlin’s door and enters.

“Gwaine,” he says, by way of greeting. “You have brought me food, I hope. And eaten properly yourself.”

“Yeah. From the table, not the kitchen. And yes, I ate. Only missed lunch ‘cause I had to talk to Arthur.”

“You did not?” Lance looks alarmed, and it takes Gwaine a moment to realise why.

“Didn’t what?” He asks, when he works it out. “Tell him what you said to Merlin, and why that set him off? Nah. Not Merlin I’m unhappy with, so I’ve no reason to spill his secrets, particularly not ones that will embarrass me in the process. Your secrets, however...”

Gwaine smirks as he settles himself in the seat beside Lance, enjoying the horrified look on his face. He isn’t a saint, after all, and Lance has fucked up both Gwaine and Merlin’s happiness in a most spectacular fashion. When it looks like Lance is about to cry, though, he stops. A little meanness every now and again is fine, but this feels unnecessarily cruel, and it’s not like telling Arthur anything had actually crossed Gwaine’s mind until Lancelot seemed worried that it had.

“Relax, Lance. I didn’t tell him anything. Wouldn’t do that to you. We’re mates, right?”

Lance scoffs. “I would not blame you if you had. It would be no less than I deserve.”

“Maybe. Not up to me to say. I know why you told him, anyway. Hell, if I were you, I might’ve done the same. Can’t really punish you for something I would’ve done, and nearly dying is probably punishment enough. You’ll want to eat that,” he gestures to the plate sitting in Lancelot’s lap. “Never know where your next meal is coming from.”

Lance looks at him strangely – whether because of Gwaine’s final statement or the rest of his words, Gwaine doesn’t quite know – but complies anyway. He chews in silence for a minute before asking, “Why?”

“Why what? Need a bit more to go on, if you want me to answer that one, mate.”

“Why,” Lance pauses, looking from Gwaine to his plate and back again, and when he continues his voice is cautious, as if he is almost rethinking his question. “Why is Merlin ending things between you?”

Gwaine is glad he isn’t eating or drinking at this moment, because he is sure anything that would have been in his mouth would have exited it pretty quickly. As it is, he just looks at Lance, slightly stunned, before retrieving his composure. “Because you told him that I love him.”

If it weren’t Lancelot he was talking to, Gwaine suspects that remark would have gotten an eye roll. “That is not what I asked, and you know it.”

“I do, yeah. But I don’t really think that the answer to the question you’re asking is any of your business.” Lance looks sort of disappointed with this response, and Gwaine curses whatever sentimental streak has grown in him recently because it means he has to answer him. “There’s someone else,” he says, and leaves it to Lance to fill in the gaps between that and what he actually wants to know. Gwaine can almost see the thoughts passing through his brain; Lancelot knows that Gwaine and Merlin are exclusive, so he knows that there isn’t someone else in that sense. He also knows that Gwaine loves Merlin, which leaves...

“Merlin loves someone else?” he asks, sounding sceptical. “You really believe that?”

Gwaine shakes his head. “I wish I only believed it.” At Lancelot’s frown, he explains. “If I believed it, there’s a chance I could be wrong. Not a large one, ‘cause this is me, but a chance nonetheless.” Lancelot doesn’t crack a smile, but then as jokes go it isn’t a very funny one. “This is something I know. Merlin doesn’t love me. I’m okay with that fact, most of the time. He isn’t.”

“Supposing I think you _are_ right,” Lancelot says, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t, not in the slightest. Of course, the tone is largely unnecessary, since Gwaine can pretty much read his desire to argue with him written across his face. “If Merlin does not love you, why are you with him? How can you possibly consider that happiness?”

“Really, Lance?” Gwaine answers, because if there’s anyone in the city who knows more about sacrificing his own happiness for the sake of the one he loves than Gwaine, it’s Lancelot. “Wouldn’t you do anything you could to make sure Gwen was happy, regardless of the cost?”

“Gwaine, that is-”

“Wouldn’t you give up your own happiness for her?” Gwaine carries on, as if Lance had never spoken. “Wouldn’t you die for her?”

Lancelot looks him in the eyes, sighing slightly, “In a heartbeat. You know I would.”

“I do, yeah. So how is this supposed to be any harder than that?” It is, of course, because Gwaine cannot imagine dying for Merlin to be anywhere near as difficult as sharing a bed with him, knowing that Merlin is wishing it was someone else’s arms wrapped around him, but at the same time, Merlin’s happiness almost makes it okay.

Lancelot just watches him, like he’s waiting for him to crack. When it becomes clear that Gwaine isn’t going to – not now, not here – he speaks. “Who, then? Who does Merlin love?”

“Nope,” Gwaine says, shaking his head. “Not saying.”

“Because you do not want to, or because you do not know?”

“Of course I know. I knew from the start – before the start, even. It’s not my place to tell you. And you aren’t going to ask him, either, or watch until you work it out.” After all, if Gwaine could tell from just paying attention to Merlin, Lancelot has a more than decent chance of working it out himself. “Let this one of his secrets stay like that, yeah? And don’t...don’t be angry at him on my behalf. Knew what I was letting myself in for, and he isn’t to blame for it.” Gwaine chuckles weakly at Lancelot’s exasperated expression. He knows he’s being overprotective again, and that he probably doesn’t have the right anymore, but it’s not like he can just make it go away.

Lancelot finishes his mouthful (a display of manners Gwaine has rarely seen from any of the knights) before asking, “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going home,” Gwaine answers, and is almost surprised by the certainty in his voice. “Only waited this long ‘cause I thought I could dissuade you.”

“Just like that? Without even talking to Merlin first?”

Gwaine looks at him blankly. “No. Not just going to take off tonight. Need to get permission, and pack things. And, yes, I’ll talk to him, let him say whatever he wants to say.”

This, apparently, meets Lancelot’s approval, because he says only, “Hmm.” Gwaine thinks this is the end of the matter, but only a few forkfuls later Lance continues. “Are you not concerned about how your running away will look?”

“Lancelot, I’ve spent my life running from place to place. Never worried before what people think about it.” Then again, of course, there’s never really been anyone who cared that Gwaine had gone, or who Gwaine cared about leaving. Instead of explaining this, he concludes with, “I’m coming back, anyway.”

“I never questioned it. I would make sure Merlin knows that, though.”

Gwaine smiles, and knows that he doesn’t look happy as he does so. “I will. Don’t know how much he’ll care, but I’ll tell him.”

“He will care,” Lance answers, and it’s like he’s forgotten all about the conversation they just had, like he thinks Merlin and Gwaine will somehow get through this mess happily and with hearts intact. He holds out his empty plate to Gwaine. “Would you take that with you when you leave, please?”

Gwaine takes it from him, standing. “Sure. Goodnight, Lance.”

“Goodnight, Gwaine,” Lance replies, and then, so quietly that Gwaine almost doesn’t hear it, “I am sorry.”

Gwaine doesn’t answer, because what can he say? Lancelot already knows that he understands, and he isn’t a big enough man to forgive so quickly. Maybe one day, given enough time and space, but not yet. He leaves silently, the snick of the door closing seeming very loud behind him.

X

Merlin, when he has finished his unnaturally huge plate of food and refused the suggestion of a second helping (Gwaine trying to make him eat he can understand, but Leon? That’s just weird), doesn’t really have anywhere to go. Lancelot as good as told him he wasn’t allowed to return to his own room, and he cannot continue to stay with Gwaine.

At the same time, though, he can’t just take his belongings and find somewhere to stay until Lancelot recovers. At the very least, Gwaine deserves an explanation (even if he already knows, which he must because why else would he have wanted to leave Merlin in the dark?).

He goes to Gwaine’s room to wait, because he owes him that much. He owes him honesty and apologies and anything he can do to make up for the pain he must have caused him. He just has to hope that ending things now will hurt Gwaine less in the long run than continuing it. Merlin doesn’t love Gwaine, can’t love him, and even if he could, destiny, Albion, _Arthur_ would still come first. He stacks his belongings in a pile at the foot of the bed, remembering the day Gwaine told him he might as well just keep his clothes there, rather than sneaking back to his own room every morning to change. It had been so easy to say yes, even without loving Gwaine, because he cared for him – still does, even, or why else would he be doing what he is about to do? – and because this was something that was Merlin’s alone. His secret, theirs and no one else’s, and this, unlike all the other secrets Merlin keeps, was harmless. No one was being hurt by it.

Or so he thought.

X

Eventually, Gwaine arrives, snapping Merlin from his guilty reverie. He shuts the door behind him and slumps against it, his whole body screaming defeat. “Merlin,” he says gently.

“Hello, Gwaine.” Merlin knows he sounds just as gentle, and just as sad. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, Merlin. Sorry won’t change anything.”

“No,” Merlin agrees. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not.” He stands, wanting to go to Gwaine and hug him, holding him the way he’s always held Merlin when he was the one wearing that face. It would be a false comfort, with the conversation they are about to have, so Merlin just ends up stationary in the middle of the room.

“So is this it?” Gwaine asks, not sounding anywhere near as bitter as Merlin thinks he should do. “Is this when you tell me that you can’t be with me anymore, because you love him and not me?”

Those aren’t the words Merlin was planning to say; he was going to be more cautious about it, slower and steadier and – he hopes – kinder. But they convey his intent, if not all the emotion that goes with it. He stays silent.

“There’s no way I could convince you this isn’t necessary, is there?”

“No,” Merlin replies, though there probably is. “And if you really do care, you won’t try.” It is a terrible thing to say, because, in all the time he has known Gwaine, Merlin has never once had reason to question whether Gwaine cares for him, and he certainly doesn’t have reason now. But Merlin has been selfish so long that a few minutes more won’t really do any further damage, and he can’t listen to Gwaine present the many justifications he will have for them staying together. He doesn’t want to leave Gwaine, because it will hurt himself almost as much as it will hurt Gwaine, but he has to.

“Please, Gwaine, don’t make this any harder than it has to be. You’re a good man; you deserve someone who can feel for you what you feel for me. You deserve to be loved, and I can’t be that person.” Merlin can feel his eyes tearing up and wills himself not to cry. Of all the unforgivable things he has done, crying now, making Gwaine comfort him – and he will, of course, because Gwaine so clearly has no sense of personal well-being where Merlin is concerned – would be worse than most of them.

“I don’t want that person, whoever the hell they are.” Gwaine steps away from the door and paces towards Merlin, the mask he’s wearing too strong for Merlin to read anything more than the tiniest flickers of emotion he’s letting through. He doesn’t seem angry, though, only sad, and all the variant emotions that go with it. “I knew, Merlin, the first time I kissed you. I knew how you felt, how I felt. If I wanted someone who could love me back, I wouldn’t have started this.”

“You will, eventually. You’ll get over me. You’ll find someone else, if you look, if you leave me for long enough to try.”

“Like you’ll get over Arthur, right?”

Merlin could argue that this is something different, that what he feels for Arthur is different to what Gwaine feels for him, that it is more permanent, less likely to be forgotten. Gwaine will only ask why if he does so, and Merlin really doesn’t think he could say. He just has to hope it is.

“Will you be happier with me gone, Merlin?” Gwaine asks, changing track, Merlin assumes, when it becomes clear that Merlin isn’t going to reply to his remark about Arthur. “Will it make you happy to end things between us?”

Merlin’s heart lifts at the question, because all he has to do to convince Gwaine that this is for the best is to lie, and do so believably. This is a task made easier by the fact that he genuinely does believe it to be for the best. Not because he will be happier, but because he’s sure Gwaine will be, given time. “Yes,” he says, voice sounding steady to his own ears, and he’s fairly certain his face is calm and confident, as much as it can be. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, Gwaine, I promise. But I will be happier.” Saying anything more will only make it obvious that he is lying; all he can do is wait to see if Gwaine buys it.

For a long moment, Merlin is sure he won’t, is sure Gwaine knows him well enough to see through this. He doesn’t know when during their conversation Gwaine stopped looking at him, but he turns back now, gaze intense and searching for a sign that this isn’t the truth. Merlin does all he can not to provide one.

“Okay,” Gwaine says finally. “If you’re happy, then it’s-” he doesn’t finish the sentence, turning his back and putting a hand to his forehead. Merlin doesn’t try to get him to look at him, because he knows Gwaine has given up on controlling his facial expressions, and he doesn’t want to see what he looks like right now, no matter how cowardly that might be.

Still, he can’t stay standing there watching Gwaine’s misery any longer. He walks forward and reaches out, puts a hand on Gwaine’s shoulder. “I’m so sor-”

“I swear, Merlin, if you say you’re sorry one more time...” The words are angry; the tone is not. “Just go, Merlin. Please, just...”

Merlin wants to obey, he really does, because the defeated slump of Gwaine’s shoulders is doing terrible things to his insides and if he doesn’t leave quickly he will change his mind. If it was only his mind that was in charge here, that wouldn’t be so bad, but changing his mind about leaving Gwaine will not change how he feels. Merlin can stay, but he still won’t love Gwaine, and regardless of how well he intends to treat him, it will be weeks – if not days – before he returns to old habits. He wants to leave, because he wants to do the right thing, but he doesn’t know where to go. “I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he says, only realising when Gwaine turns to look at him that he should have left without saying anything; if Gwaine’s posture had hurt him, it is _nothing_ compared to how his expression makes Merlin feel.

“Lancelot’s,” Gwaine answers. “If he’s in your room, he can’t...” Merlin would laugh, if it weren’t so far from funny; an inability to finish sentences has always been much more his thing than Gwaine’s. Gwaine, who has always been so certain, who has always known exactly what to say, and Merlin has brought him to this.

He goes.

X

Gwaine knows Merlin doesn’t want to hurt him, because Merlin never wants to hurt anyone. It shouldn’t hurt, anyway; he’s known all along that it would come to this, that Merlin wouldn’t stay with him once he knew. He’s had two days to prepare himself for this conversation (even if he spent half that time worrying about whether or not Merlin was going to survive long enough for them to have it), and it still feels like his heart is shrivelling up to the size of a fruit stone, like he has just taken a knife, an arrow, an axe for someone he doesn’t even like.

He has spent years hearing and scorning the cliché of a person’s world ending when they are left by the one they love, and now...now he is fucking living it.

There is a list of things Gwaine will not allow himself to do. He will not beg. He will not cry. He will not argue when Merlin tells him that this is the right thing to do. He will not let the angry, instinctual part of his brain take over, the part that will want to hurt Merlin as much as Merlin is hurting him.

But he can’t stop himself from asking. He knows that Merlin will say yes, because he knows that Merlin knows his own happiness far outweighs Gwaine’s in terms of importance. He knows Merlin will say yes, but he doesn’t know if Merlin will be lying when he does so.

And then he realises how much of a mistake asking that question is, because he thinks Merlin lies to him, but he just isn’t sure. All he knows is that he wants Merlin to be lying, so that he can fight back, present all the reasons for them to stay together that Merlin has asked him not to give. And because he wants it, he can’t let himself accept anything he sees in Merlin’s face or hears in his voice. He wants it to be a lie, so he can’t trust the instinct that tells him it is.

“Okay,” he says. “If you’re happy, then it’s-”

But it isn’t. It isn’t fucking okay. It’s not all fine and dandy, and he can’t make himself say that it is. For the first time in months, Merlin’s happiness isn’t enough, and Gwaine doesn’t really know how to deal with it.

Merlin starts to apologise, _again_ , and Gwaine just wants him gone before he snaps completely. He hasn’t told Merlin that he’s going home, or said any of the other things he should have said, and yet, when he calls Merlin’s name just as the other man lays his hand on the door handle, he can only say those three words that Merlin already knows, the words that are too insignificant to have caused so much unhappiness, too simple to convey emotions so complex.

“I love you,” he tells him, and even though he has never said it to anyone before he knows that isn’t how it is supposed to sound. _I love you_ is supposed to sound joyful, alive, synonymous with hopes and dreams and promises of forever. _I love you_ is supposed to sound good, is supposed to be brimming with happiness and light and Gwaine never realised until he said it to Merlin just how damnably romantic he actually is. Because it won’t fix anything, won’t change Merlin’s mind or heart, and yet he cannot let Merlin leave without saying it, just once, even though it sounds broken, apologetic, drenched in the knowledge that he is not Arthur and thus not enough.

Merlin doesn’t turn around, doesn’t say anything; a brief second of absolute stillness is the only thing that tells Gwaine he has been heard. Merlin goes, as Gwaine asked him to, shutting the door behind him, shutting Gwaine in his room alone.

Alone.

It is what Gwaine asked for, and not what he wants. Nor is it what he needs, but it’s what he is.

The end of the week, his mental deadline for departure, is suddenly so very much too far away. He wants out, and he wants out now.

To hell with packing and permission. To hell with responsible and obedient.

To bloody, fucking, bastardly, buggering hell with sober.

X

Beer.

Beer is his friend.

Beer makes everything just a little bit out of focus, just a little bit further away.

Beer doesn’t abandon him as soon as it finds out how he feels for it.

He needs another drink.

X

Gwaine cannot understand just how wrong he has been lately, how he could be so stupid. He doesn’t need Merlin. He doesn’t need _anyone_.

He just needs beer.

Beer is his friend.

X

Bonnie is not Gwaine’s friend. Nor is Beatrice, or whatever the other one is called.

“I think you’ve had enough now,” she says.

_Bitch_.

A hand connects, really kind of sort of painfully, with Gwaine’s left cheek, and the sting does something to lessen the fuzziness in his head. _Fuck. That was out loud, wasn’t it?_

“Yes, Sir Gwaine, and so was that. I think it’s best you leave now, before my father comes over.”

Well, that’s just fine, isn’t it? It’s not like there aren’t other places Gwaine can go to for a drink. See if he ever comes here again.

X

Except the next place won’t give him drinks, either.

No, okay, they give him one, two, three drinks (it might be more, but his vision is very definitely doubled and possibly tripled, so he isn’t entirely sure). But they don’t give him enough.

And then when he asks for (demands) another, they drag him out. Or someone does. Two someones.

So he maybe swung the first punch, but he didn’t make everyone else join in. It’s not Gwaine’s fault.

“Look, you,” one of the someones shouts at him. “I don’t know who you are, but I don’t expect to see you in here again. No one here deserves your anger.”

With that, they let him go, suddenly and violently; Gwaine staggers, barely managing to avoid landing in the muddy puddle outside the door. He still ends up with his arse hitting the floor pretty damn hard, but he is neither wet nor filthy so it’s more of a victory than experience has lead him to expect.

Besides, there is definitely someone who deserves his anger.

X

Merlin does not sleep well.

Of course, he wasn’t really expecting to.

Lancelot’s room is just so quiet, really. Quiet and unfamiliar. The sheets smell like Lance (and it isn’t that Lancelot stinks, but his smell isn’t the one Merlin is used to), and Merlin can’t seem to get warm, despite how well wrapped in them he is.

Objectively, he has always known that he is cold, his hands and feet in particular. Until he moved in with Gwaine, it was never really an issue, except for the rare occasions he ended up sleeping head to toe with Arthur when they’d get stuck camping unexpectedly for one reason or another. And then Gwaine, who complained every time Merlin’s icy toes brushed against him, but never moved away, who would warm Merlin’s hands with his own after whining about their temperature, who would hold Merlin closer and tighter whenever he shivered.

Now he is sleeping alone, in a bed that is not his own, with cold toes and no one to warm them on, no soft breath in his ear, no arms wrapped around him, no legs draped over his.

Or, technically, he isn’t. He is not sleeping. Merlin is cold, alone, and very much awake.

He tosses and turns for more hours than there should be in a night, finally giving up shortly before sunrise. It is far too early to wake Arthur (or anyone, for that matter), but lying in bed any longer is truly pointless, so he gets up, dressing in some of the clothes he took with him on leaving Gwaine’s room.

The kitchens, Merlin thinks, will be open, bustling and busy, and seeing as he has no desire to eat in the mess hall (chances are, Gwaine will be there) he can go to the kitchens for breakfast, then collect something for Arthur when he is done. It isn’t like Arthur doesn’t yell whenever Merlin wakes him; at least with him shouting, Merlin can pretend something is still normal.

Besides, in the absence of magic and sleep, he’s going to need all the extra time he can get.

X

Arthur does not seem to agree with him, or even understand, if his irritation is anything to go by. He doesn’t comment on how visibly tired Merlin appears (and, having seen his reflection, Merlin knows just how terrible he looks), or on the absence of quips when Merlin wakes him, serves his breakfast and sets about tidying his room.

Merlin doesn’t notice Arthur’s impatient stare, though he imagines that by the time he says, “ _Mer_ lin, hurry up,” the staring has gone on for several minutes. He finishes tucking in the corners of Arthur’s sheets in an almost vaguely neat way, then follows him from the room.

It is far harder to help Arthur into his armour than it has been for years. Merlin’s hands do not seem willing to work in cohesion with his brain; he knows how to put on each piece of armour, how to fasten them together, and yet the information seems to get lost somewhere between his brain and his hands because nothing is doing what it is supposed to. Arthur allows him more than a couple of minutes of useless fumbling before pushing him away gently. “Go sit down, Merlin,” he tells him, not unkindly. “I can finish this myself, and you’re clearly too tired to begin training today.”

Merlin does, because disobedience would take far too much thought (and the fact that he hadn’t noticed the second set of armour lying next to Arthur’s until Arthur pointed it out to him sort of suggests that the prince isn’t wrong). Gwen isn’t there today, so Merlin sits alone and almost dozes, his back against the fence surrounding the field, until Lance shakes his shoulder gently. Even so, Merlin starts, and Lance takes a quick step back.

“Sorry, I was – did you sleep at all last night, Merlin?”

Merlin rubs his eyes, squinting blearily up at him. “I don’t think so, no. Did you want something?”

“I was wondering if you knew where Gwaine is.” At Merlin’s frown, he elaborates. “He is not here, Merlin. He was not at breakfast, either, so I checked your – his room, I mean, and he was not there.”

“Gwaine’s not here?” Merlin looks at the field behind Lancelot to find that, yes, Gwaine is not present. “Where...?”

Lancelot shakes his head. “That is what I was asking you. Really, Merlin, wake up. Why did you not sleep, anyway?”

“I slept in your room. Or didn’t, rather. Gwaine and I...” Finishing that sentence is too painful (and would make things sound like a mutual decision, which it in no way was, Merlin knows), so Merlin just stops, leaving Lancelot to work it out.

And he does, all of it. “You broke up? No, that is not what it was. You left him. Did you even let him explain?” Merlin hears the disapproval in his voice, just the faintest whisper of it, and wonders just how hard Lancelot is working to keep the rest of his opinions hidden, and _why_. This is Lancelot, first to point out and condemn any hint of unfairness, and yet he is trying to hide what he really thinks of Merlin’s latest crappy treatment of Gwaine. “I am sure you thought it was for the best,” Lancelot adds, as some peculiar sort of apology, the fact that he doesn’t even believe his own words audible in every syllable.

Merlin winces, too tired to be defensive, too sad to explain that he _had_ to end it, that it wouldn’t be fair to continue relying on Gwaine, and that if he had to hear Gwaine fight his decision, he wouldn’t have been able to walk away. He just sits silently, absorbing Lancelot’s unspoken displeasure with him, accepting it as the punishment he deserves, because he knows no one else is going to treat him as he deserves to be treated.

He waits, trying not to waver under the weight of the disdain Lancelot probably thinks Merlin hasn’t noticed, until he hears Arthur shouting. “Sir Lancelot, we’re waiting for you. Since you saw fit to ignore the advice given to you with regards to your own health, it would be appreciated if you would do what you are supposed to. Leave my servant alone, please.”

“But I-” Lancelot begins, only to but cut off by Arthur.

“Now. No buts. You can talk later.”

Lancelot obeys, shooting Merlin a look that states very clearly that he will be doing just that, at the earliest possible opportunity. Merlin can’t even bring himself to worry about it.

He closes his eyes as the ring of steel on steel resumes, occasionally punctuated by a grunt or cry, and thinks that perhaps he actually manages to fall asleep for a short while; the next time he is definitely aware of his surroundings, training is over, the light shining through his eyelids is blocked slightly and he can hear Leon, Lancelot and Arthur talking in hushed voices.

X

“Is he asleep?” Arthur asks, very quietly, and Merlin doesn’t open his eyes.

“I hope so,” Lancelot replies. “He told me he did not sleep last night. I imagine Gwaine did not either, though I have no idea where he is.” Merlin’s breath catches at the mention of himself, Gwaine and sleeping in such close conjunction, and he expects Arthur or Leon to ask what the link between the two is.

When they don’t, Merlin slits his eyes open enough to see Arthur very deliberately avoiding Lancelot’s gaze, so he is prepared for his next words. “I do, actually. He-” Arthur looks at Merlin, his expression one of obvious and entirely genuine concern, something Merlin has never seen directed at him. He closes his eyes fully, before – he thinks – Arthur has the chance to see that they are open, and the prince continues. “He came to my room last night, shouting incoherently, completely drunk. All I managed to catch before the guards took him away was that something is all my fault. He spent the night in the dungeons; it was the only way I could convince everyone not to tell my fa- I _know_ I saw you move then, _Mer_ lin. You can stop pretending.”

Merlin does so, reluctantly, cursing himself for flinching when he heard how (or, rather, where) Gwaine spent his night. “Sorry,” he mutters under the weight of Arthur’s disapprobation.

“I don’t suppose he told you what it is that you are apparently to blame for, sire?” Leon asks as Merlin uses the fence to pull himself to his feet.

“He may have done; I honestly could not say. He’s still down there, anyway, sleeping it off, so I shall ask later when he – I hope – won’t be slurring quite so much.”

Merlin doesn’t like that idea, not in the slightest, but he can’t really protest without providing a reason. He opens his mouth to say something anyway, regardless of the wisdom of doing so, and is surprised when his words are replaced by a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Merlin, go get some sleep,” Arthur instructs. “A servant as tired as you is of no use whatsoever. I shall send someone to wake you this afternoon.”

When a second yawn swallows his refusal, Merlin gives this suggestion the consideration it merits. “Yeah. Yeah, I – sorry.” He stumbles back to the castle, only noticing his destination when the pillow he lays his head on is softer than his own, and smells suspiciously like Gwaine. He is too exhausted to leave, and seeing as Gwaine is locked up until Arthur decides to let him out, Merlin might as well stay in the only place he has any chance of actually sleeping.

X

It is not as long as Gwaine would like since he last awoke without knowing where he is before opening his eyes (though it is quite a while). Far longer is the time since he last woke with such a splitting headache.

“Merlin,” he mumbles, opening his eyes ever so slightly, only to shut them immediately when the light feels like knives driving into his eyes. “Merlin, what _happened_ last night?”

“Merlin isn’t here,” a voice replies, further away than Gwaine was expecting.

He tries again to see where he is, this time managing to bear the pain long enough for the room around him to come into focus. Well, he says _room_. What he actually means is _cell_. Grey stone, grey bars, grey blanket lying next to him. Even the straw he’s lying on manages to be grey. It’s sort of a relief, because Gwaine is fairly sure the combination of light and colour right now might actually kill him.

When he’s quite sure he’s not about to throw up all he’s eaten and drunk in the last day or two (which he gathers is quite a lot, more than it has been in months, possibly even years, based upon his current state of agony), Gwaine looks around him for the source of the voice.

Oh, joy. Arthur. Leaning against a pillar just the other side of Gwaine’s bars, smirking at him in a despicably pleased way.

“It seems you had a good night, Sir Gwaine.”

At this, Gwaine’s mind begins working at filling in the blanks. Obviously, he drank a hell of a lot, otherwise his head wouldn’t be feeling like a well-used anvil right now. But why? Apart from the brief misunderstanding about other people, he hasn’t felt the need to get out of his mind drunk since he and Merlin got together and...

“No. It was decidedly not a good night, Prince Arthur.” Whatever may have happened after the drinking and getting evicted from two taverns in the space of one night (something of a record for him, though that is probably just because he has rarely drunk in cities big enough to have more than one tavern), it was probably as far from good as he can imagine. To be totally honest, he’s happy enough not remembering it; his conversation with Merlin was misery enough for one night, and the odd gap in his memories can’t possibly do him more harm than filling those gaps would.

“You are not the only one,” Arthur replies. “Merlin, it appears, got not sleep whatsoever, and whilst my own night was not as uncomfortable as his, I did find myself woken by one of my knights, exceedingly intoxicated, shouting in a mildly embarrassing way.”

Gwaine struggles to his feet, fighting nausea and the drumming in his head in order to be slightly closer to eye level with the prince. “I didn’t?” he asks, shame running through him.

“I’m afraid you did.”

Well, that at least explains why Arthur looks so happy to see Gwaine locked up and visibly suffering from the cruellest of hangovers. And, for that matter, explains _why_ he is locked up. It’s almost a pity he can’t remember it, if he apparently succeeded in annoying Arthur enough that imprisonment was the only solution. Although, when he thinks about it, there is only really one reason his alcohol impaired brain might have decided that speaking to Arthur was a good idea. Merlin.

“I don’t suppose I...said anything, did I? Anything...unusual, I mean.” Gwaine leans against his cell door as he asks this, looping his arms through the bars and trying his best to look relaxed (an absurd thing to do, because any sensible person knows that a dungeon – even a dungeon one recognises and probably won’t be imprisoned in for too long – is not somewhere one should relax).

“I couldn’t say. Beyond the fact that you apparently thought that something was – and I paraphrase a little, since your language was somewhat interesting – ‘all my fault’, I did not understand very much. So convinced were you of this belief, however, that you attempted to knock me unconscious. Fortunately, as I’m sure you’ll agree, your level of drunkenness was such that you failed to land a single blow.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Gwaine even thinks he might be, and not just because he’s fairly sure attacking the heir to the throne probably merits fairly harsh punishment, even if said attack fails. Merlin would probably still be with him if he weren’t so hung up over his master, but Arthur never wanted Merlin’s affections. Hell, Arthur doesn’t even know he has Merlin’s affections; he is no more to blame than most people, and considerably less to blame than some.

Arthur watches Gwaine for a long moment before responding. “Yes, I suppose you are. Would you tell me what I am to blame for, if I were to ask?”

“I don’t know,” Gwaine blusters, hoping if he sounds assured enough Arthur will believe him. “Who knows what I thought? I was-”

“If the next word out your mouth is _drunk_ ,” Arthur cuts in, “you will find yourself residing here for quite some time.”

Gwaine nods, conceding; there are only so many times he can use that as an excuse, and Arthur has heard it more than most. “Okay, fine. I know what it was. But I won’t tell you. I was wrong anyway. Wasn’t your fault.”

“I see. And if I were to ask Merlin?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t know what you’re talking about,” Gwaine lies, fully expecting Arthur to call him on it.

“ _Are_ you?” Gwaine expects Arthur to continue, because he knows full well that Merlin would know exactly what Gwaine meant, and would Arthur really have mentioned Merlin if he didn’t think he knew? However, nothing further follows this question. Gwaine doesn’t reply, regardless of how much Arthur seems to expect him to, because anything he says will only convince Arthur to ask Merlin about it, and Gwaine would really rather Merlin didn’t know about this at all. He still has the dregs of his pride to think of, neglected though they may have been of late.

Eventually, Arthur nods, and Gwaine feels like his silence has lost him this battle just as surely as speaking would have done. “Very well, Sir Gwaine. I have an announcement to make. The guards have orders to release you shortly before dinner this evening.”

He turns to depart, and suddenly Gwaine doesn’t want to be left alone there, even if his only companion is Arthur.

“Wait,” he calls, then stumbles to think of something to say when Arthur turns back with a frown on his face. “I intend to return home,” he announces, when nothing better presents itself to his mind. It isn’t the request for leave that he originally intended, nor is it the unflinching rudeness he vaguely recalls planning yesterday evening, before he was evicted from the knights’ tavern. Some sort of middle ground, he thinks, neither obsequious nor overly demanding.

Unfortunately, it does not have the effect he desired; Arthur’s only remark is, “I shall consider it,” and then Gwaine is left alone.

X

“Merlin.” The voice – he thinks it is Lancelot’s – is soft and careful. “Are you in there?”

“Yeah,” he replies, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he rolls from his – _Gwaine’s_ – bed. “What is it?” He opens the door, letting Lance in, then sits on a chair to lace his boots.

“Arthur is letting Gwaine out soon. I did not think you would want him to return and find you asleep in his bed. Also, it is dinner time, and it has been announced this morning that food will only be served at mealtimes; something about crops dying across the kingdom.”

“Oh. Thanks, I guess,” Merlin is thinking, though, about the last time crops started dying and why. But even if Arthur does consistently feel the need to go after creatures he doesn’t have the ability to kill just because his father tells him to, surely he wouldn’t be so stupid as to repeat that mistake? This time has to be something else, obviously. Merlin pushes that vague concern from his mind, and is immediately confronted with the next one. “Do...do you know how Gwaine is?”

“No, Merlin, I do not. You can ask him yourself at the table.” Again, Lancelot is clearly trying to hide how unhappy he is with Merlin, and is not really doing a whole lot better than he was that morning. “We should be going there now, if you do not mind.”

Merlin nods, knowing that he isn’t going to talk to Gwaine about his feelings. Gwaine wouldn’t want to tell him, and no matter that he chooses to blame Arthur, Gwaine’s misery is entirely Merlin’s fault. He should have tried harder to be friends with him, rather than pestering until Gwaine gave up on resisting. If they had only been friends, Merlin wouldn’t have had to break Gwaine’s heart. If they had only been friends, only Gaius and Lancelot would know about Merlin’s magic. If they had only been friends, Merlin would be no happier now, and would have been a hell of a lot less happy the last few months.

If they had only been friends, Gwaine...and there is the problem. Merlin doesn’t know. Gwaine might’ve spent the last few months shagging his way through the citizens of Camelot, spent every evening drinking and carousing, instead of listening to Merlin whine. Gwaine might’ve moved on to pastures new, without anything to keep him in the city. All that Merlin can really be certain of is that Gwaine wouldn’t have spent last night locked in the dungeons after yelling at Arthur, wouldn’t be the terrible wreck he was yesterday evening when Merlin told him they were through.

He follows Lancelot to the knights’ mess hall, managing a small smile of gratitude when Lance tells him that Arthur has found someone else to serve his meal for the evening. He will go by Arthur’s room anyway, he resolves, after he’s finished eating, in an attempt to make up for his absence the rest of the day.

Gwaine joins them partway through the meal, making a solid attempt at his usual swagger. “So, I’ve been otherwise occupied for the day. I miss anything?” He smirks, almost, as he asks the question, despite the fact that they all know where he’s been all day. “And what’s with this plate of food?”

While Elyan answers him, Merlin thinks. After however long of being the closest person to Gwaine, he has watched him enough to tell when he is lying, and right now he definitely is. Gwaine knows why their food is being doled out by a number of servants from a table by the door, rather than being laid out along the tables for them to eat what they will. Gwaine already knew about the rationing. Did Arthur tell him before anyone else (anyone but Leon, Merlin amends, because this so clearly explains why Gwaine and Leon were so keen on feeing everyone up last night)?

But why would he? Leon, yes, would know, because Leon knows everything. Gwaine wouldn’t. Arthur doesn’t even like Gwaine all that much; he’d never tell him something like this before anyone else, and certainly not before telling Merlin.

“Damn,” Gwaine says, as Elyan finishes his explanation. “I’d hate to be the poor bugger who told Arthur when the king gets hold of him. Does anyone know who it was?” He glances, just briefly, at Leon as he asks this. Merlin wonders why, because while Leon probably does know, he isn’t going to tell anyone if Arthur has said not to. Unless...

Unless Gwaine is the one who told Arthur.

Without telling Merlin.

He doesn’t know which possibility feels worse; that Arthur told Gwaine before telling Merlin, or that Gwaine told Arthur with no intention of telling Merlin at all. Either way, he feels hurt, and absurdly jealous.

And certainly not hungry anymore.

“I have to go,” he says, standing and climbing over the bench upon which he had been sat.

“You have not finished,” Lancelot says, at the same time as Gwaine begins, “Mer-”

“Lost my appetite.” Merlin walks away before anyone can protest further. He will go see Arthur, who will explain everything in such a way that Merlin can make sense of these stupid emotions he’s feeling.

X

Talking to Arthur proves less than helpful.

The prince looks surprised when Merlin appears, letting himself into the room as he has so many times before. “Merlin, I was not expecting you tonight. I thought you might be- well, I expected someone else.”

“Oh.” Merlin suddenly realises just how terrible an idea this is. He doesn’t want to talk to Arthur about Gwaine, and there is absolutely no chance that doing so would make him anything other than extremely uncomfortable. “I’ll just go, then, shall I?”

“Actually, you can sit down.” That is decidedly odd. In all the time Merlin has worked for Arthur, he has never been encouraged to sit in his presence, except for the rat stew incident, and he really doesn’t want to repeat that one. “I wish to talk to you.” This is even more unexpected, since Merlin is fairly sure at least a quarter of the sentences Arthur speaks to him involve the words _shut_ and _up_ as key components.

“To talk to me,” he echoes, sounding every bit the idiot most people think him to be.

“Yes, _Mer_ lin, I wish to talk to you. _Sit_.” He does, and Arthur sits opposite him. “Merlin, I am concerned for your well-being. How are you?”

Merlin blinks, because with that question this conversation has spun further from their normal exchanges than he ever thought possible. “Confused. Are you sure _you_ are feeling alright, Arthur?”

“I have inquired about your health before. It is not that unusual.”

Merlin can’t remember a single occasion on which Arthur has asked how he is and, while in the past he may have wished for that to change, right now he is really wishing it hadn’t. There is something more than a little wrong about Arthur openly expressing concern for him, although he knows Arthur does worry about him sometimes. If he thought Arthur would be put off by a joke, Merlin would ask whether he was currently inches from death and had just somehow managed to miss that fact, but now probably isn’t the best time. “I’m fine, sire,” he replies, though of course he isn’t.

“Of course you are,” Arthur agrees immediately, though he continues to stare unerringly at Merlin. After a moment, he resumes speaking, slowly, almost cautiously. “However, if you weren’t fine, you would be able to talk to me about it, regardless of what the problem might be.”

“Yes, of course,” Merlin answers, if only to end the discussion, because there are things he cannot talk to Arthur about; no matter how uncharacteristically sympathetic Arthur might be right now, he would be just a little discomfited to find out Merlin has feelings for him. He thinks about leaving then, but he figures he might as well say what he intended to when he arrived, because it cannot possibly make this conversation any more awkward. “Supposing,” he begins, hedging slightly. “Supposing I thought I knew who told you about the rationing, and was concerned about how you intended to protect them from your father...”

“Firstly, Merlin,” Arthur says, with a cool simplicity that tells Merlin he hasn’t managed to be quite as subtle as he thought he had, “I am not going to confirm what you are asking me to confirm. I would advise you to ask that person instead, if you really wish to know.”

Merlin shakes his head without really intending to, and sees a look flicker across Arthur’s face that isn’t so much happiness as...satisfaction; Merlin has convinced him of something he was not entirely certain of, without meaning to, without even being sure what it is.

“As for the matter of protection, there are three people who know for certain who told me: Leon, the person in question, and myself. Since none of us intend to tell my father, and I will not allow anyone to be executed on a suspicion or _supposition_ , you have nothing to be concerned about. Particularly seeing as-” Arthur stops.

“Particularly seeing as what?” Merlin asks, managing to add a vague sense of curiosity to his confusion as to what he accidentally informed Arthur of, both of which are doing something to smother the jealousy-hurt-guilt-sorrow he was already feeling.

“Nothing.”

“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t have said anything. What is it?”

“Merlin, if I say it is nothing, it is _nothing_. Is that clear?”

Very little is clear to Merlin beyond the fact that Arthur doesn’t want to tell him anything, but he agrees anyway, mostly since arguing isn’t going to get him an answer. “Okay. I won’t ask anything else about it. Is there anything you want me to do this evening?”

“No, that will be everything. If you could be awake tomorrow, that would be much appreciated, and far more efficient. Since you are absolutely fine, that is.” Arthur smirks, but not meanly, if such a thing is possible. “Goodnight, Merlin.”

Merlin pulls his chair back and stands. “Goodnight, Arthur.” He pauses with his hand on the door handle and adds, softly, “Thank you,” because even if it is one of the least opportune moments possible for Arthur to develop an interest in his life, he is still sort of grateful for it.

As he heads down the corridor away from Arthur’s chambers, he wonders for the second evening in a row just where exactly he is going to go now.

X

Gwaine doesn’t particularly appreciate the sympathy Lance keeps directing at him during the meal, but he knows better than to complain with everyone there. He will be gone, soon, away from it all, the pity and the pain and the pretending that everything is fine. He can stomach it until then.

He eats his meal with little complaint, after making what he thinks was a good go at feigning ignorance of the food situation. Most of the others seem to be convinced, anyway, though if any of them were to ask outright whether he told Arthur what was going on, Gwaine wouldn’t lie; he’s pretty sure that none of them hate him enough to use it as an opportunity to engineer his death.

“Gwaine?” Leon says in a low voice, snapping Gwaine from his thoughts. He blinks at the sight of a fork hovering somewhere between his plate and his mouth and wonders how long he has been staring aimlessly – since shortly after Merlin left, he knows, but he doesn’t know when that was.

“Yeah,” he says, and then moves the fork the rest of the way to his mouth, even though the food on it is very much cold by now. “What is it?”

The sight of the half-chewed food in his mouth is enough to stop Lancelot, unfortunate enough to be sitting opposite him, expressing any sympathy towards him (his look of disgust makes Gwaine’s entire day seem just a little bit brighter, even if he’s pretty sure it’s only going to be temporary).

“Prince Arthur said he would like to see you when you had finished eating. I would advise you to do so without alcohol today, and politely, unless you wish to be banished.”

“Did he say why?” Gwaine asks, because he doesn’t really want to talk to Arthur unless he’s sure the conversation will be something sensible and simple and entirely without mention of Merlin.

Leon wrinkles his brow at Gwaine in a look that can’t quite be described as a frown. “No, he did not. Nor did I see fit to ask.” He stops, and the expression becomes a definite frown. “He did say that I was to make it clear that your presence was required rather than desired, however, and I do not wish to explain to Arthur tomorrow why you were not there.”

Gwaine nods and resumes eating, ignoring Lance’s wince. He doesn’t speed up any, because the little part of his brain that’s just slightly pissed at having spent the day in the dungeon enjoys keeping Arthur waiting, although he does intend to go; punishing Leon because he wants to go straight from dinner to his room – or, even better, the tavern – is hardly fair. When he is finished, he sighs in an overly dramatic fashion, glances at Merlin’s mostly full plate, and rises from his seat. “I’ll be going to talk to his majesty, then. Here’s hoping I don’t get locked away again.”

He is a good way down the corridor from the hall when he hears determined footsteps following him. “Gwaine,” Lance calls after him, and Gwaine curses himself for announcing his destination (even if he only did so for Leon’s peace of mind) and thus the direction in which he would be walking. “Hold on for a minute, please.”

He slows for Lance to catch up with him but does not stop. “Can you say whatever you have to say while I walk, Lance, because I’m sort of hoping to get my bags packed tonight.”

“I suppose so. It is about Merlin.” Gwaine bites back a sarcastic comment about how totally unexpected that statement is, even though the way Lancelot pauses practically begs him to provide some sort of derisive remark. “You told him to sleep in my room last night.”

This doesn’t actually make it into the realm of being a question, so Gwaine feels no need to reply to it. It is a statement, one Lancelot already knows to be true. The pause grows longer as Lancelot takes far too much time to work this out (he does work it out eventually, though, which Gwaine takes to be a sign that he is learning). “Why did you say that?”

Gwaine wants to congratulate him on his increasingly intelligence, but settles for just answering the question, obvious as the answer should be. “Because you were in his bed, and he had just told me that I would get over him, and he would be far happier without me. I didn’t see too many alternatives.”

Lancelot stops him with a hand on his arm, which is sort of a sign that Gwaine shouldn’t have told him that if he wanted the pity to stop. “He said that? I suppose that explains why you were drinking, then.”

“Yes, I suppose it does, doesn’t it?” Gwaine doesn’t even have to try to sound scathing; it happens all on its own. He thinks he is really doing quite a spectacular job of sounding unbothered by the whole matter, regardless of how much Lancelot’s expression seems to disagree with him.

“You do not actually believe him, do you?”

“Unless this is what you wanted to talk to me about, Lancelot, I’m going to have to go.” Privately, he adds that he wants to go regardless of what other things Lance has to tell him, and speeds up just a little bit.

Lancelot gives him an unpleasant glare, but allows Gwaine to get away with it. “I want to talk to you tomorrow, then. I am worried about you.”

Gwaine rolls his eyes, even has he concedes. “Yeah, if you must.” If he’s still in the city tomorrow, he won’t get away quite so easily, which is really just another reason not to be. He walks away without saying goodbye, pretending not to feel Lancelot’s eyes watching him as he goes.

He hears footsteps heading down the corridor towards him as he approaches Arthur’s room, and ducks behind a pillar. Gwaine doesn’t know why Arthur wants to see him, but he doesn’t particularly want to be seen heading there for the third time in two days. His hiding proves fortuitous, since the person to whom the footsteps belong is Merlin, staring blankly at what seems to be nothing and chewing his lower lip in what Gwaine recognises as his expression of confused thought. Part of Gwaine wants to ask Merlin what the problem is and offer his help, while the other part of him wants to shout that he has spent months doing all he can to help Merlin, only for Merlin to abandon him when he found out why. Merlin has no fucking reason to be confused or unhappy; he is supposed to be happy now, and Gwaine is under no obligation to offer his assistance.

Before either impulse can win out, Merlin has walked on by, none the wiser as to Gwaine’s presence. That is probably a good thing, he thinks, because he doesn’t want to be angry at Merlin, but he doesn’t want to be the same self-sacrificing idiot he was when they were together, particularly seeing as the bonuses of doing so are somewhat less now.

Really, he just wants to be elsewhere, away from having to make any decisions of the sort, and the best way to satisfy that desire is to tell Arthur that he is going home with or without permission. So he checks the corridor in both directions for anyone he wants to avoid – which is to say, anyone – and, on finding it clear, continues on towards Arthur’s.

The door is opened for him as soon as he knocks, confirming what Leon said about him being expected (not, of course, that he had any reason to doubt Leon’s word).

“What did you want to see me about?” Gwaine asks as soon as the door is shut behind him, quite determined not to beat around the bush.

“Good to see you’ve learnt some manners in your months here, Sir Gwaine.” Arthur gives Gwaine a look that is some combination of a smirk and glare, but he cannot really muster the energy to care. Masking his absence of caring is also far too difficult, so he just waits in a bored sort of way for him to carry on. “Fine. I shall cut to the chase.”

He surveys Gwaine for a moment in what can only be described as a kingly manner, and Gwaine is a little surprised to realise that he means that in an entirely complimentary way.

“I grant you permission to leave,” Arthur says, and Gwaine’s heart lifts a little from its resting place in the pit of his stomach, “On a number of conditions.”

That is less promising, but there is no reason for him not to agree to the conditions in order to leave and ignore them entirely once he is gone. “Right. What are they?”

“First, you are to make sure I or one of my knights will be aware of your whereabouts at all times for which you are absent. I expect the precise location of your home before you depart from the city, and notification should you choose to leave it.” He waits for Gwaine to offer his assent before proceeding. “Second, you are to return without delay should you ever be instructed to do so.” Again, Gwaine agrees, because it would have to be a pretty huge emergency if ever Arthur was to demand he return to the city, and somewhere along the line he has come to care for far more people here than just Merlin. “Finally, you are to inform Merlin that you are leaving, and why.”

This last condition is definitely a sticking point, but Gwaine sees no need to tell Arthur that. By the time the prince realises Gwaine has failed to do so, he will be far enough away that pursuit would be futile. Besides, it’s not like Arthur can do anything once he’s gone, except possibly to forbid him from returning, and Gwaine doesn’t think he’ll do that, given the second of the three conditions. “Fine, I agree to all of them. Anything else?”

“Only that I would advise you to think very carefully before you go. Leaving is far simpler than returning will be.” Arthur takes a deep breath before continuing, and does so with obvious hesitance. “Whatever it is you have done to upset Merlin, he will forgive you for it, in time. If you run away now, he might not.”

“Whatever I’ve done to upset Merlin?” Gwaine knows he shouldn’t be angry, because anyone who knows him and Merlin and knows about their relationship would make the same assumption. He has never made any effort to change his reputation, never tried to portray himself as the good guy in all of this, and even if he had no one would have believed it, not even himself, he thinks. But the accusation, coming from Arthur, the number one cause of Merlin’s unhappiness, still fucking hurts, and if this was anyone else he’d at least try to deny it or maybe explain. But it isn’t anyone else; it’s Arthur, and Gwaine so doesn’t want him to know more than he already does.

“You know that you aren’t one of my favourite people, and I know I am not one of yours,” Arthur replies. “But I would have to be blind not to see that you care for him as much as he cares for you. You can fix this.”

“With all due respect, _your highness_ ,” Gwaine sneers, as much sarcasm as he can manage going into the title, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Arthur so clearly has a great deal to say in response to this, but Gwaine is out of the door before he can finish his first sentence.

X

Merlin spends a second mostly sleepless night in what Gwaine has (un)affectionately dubbed Gwen and Arthur’s shag-room (Merlin, as the person who changes the sheets, knows that this isn’t what they do in there, but he never cared to correct Gwaine, at least in part because he knew Gwaine wouldn’t listen if he had). Somewhere between the early hour at which he locks himself in there and the equally early hour at which he wakes, he does manage a short period of sleep, but it’s hardly enough to count as rest.

He whiles away a few minutes manually erasing any sign that he has been there and hiding his clothes somewhere they’re unlikely to be noticed should anyone look in on the room (which is improbable, but Merlin doesn’t want to take the risk), then heads to the stables to begin the first and least pleasant of the tasks he skipped out on the previous day. He mucks out Arthur’s horses by the light of a lantern, then takes Arthur’s hounds out in the cold blue light of dawn, shivering the whole while. By the time he re-enters the castle and washes in cold water (having forgotten to source some hot in the absence of his magic), it is time take Arthur his breakfast, make his bed, help him on with his armour and start all the other myriad tasks that are inevitably waiting for him. And training, because he doubts tiredness will get him out of it two days in a row.

All without the possibility of gratitude, compassion, assistance from Arthur or amusing hindrance from Gwaine. Then he will return here to another cold, sleepless night, whiling away the hours with thoughts of ifs and buts that he knows cannot change anything, until he has to begin it all again tomorrow.

When he gets to Arthur’s room, though, there is an empty plate on the table and Arthur’s bed has been made. Poorly, Merlin has to say, but it is more of an attempt than Arthur has ever made before. There are still clothes on the floor, and papers to collect and tidy, so Merlin, whilst confused, does not feel entirely obsolete. He is trying to work out what is in need of washing and what has just been thrown out of the cupboards as a result of the prince’s latest fashion dilemma when Lancelot taps sharply on the door and walks in.

“Did you know about this?” he asks, handing a folded sheet of paper to Arthur.

Arthur reads the paper swiftly, his expression getting increasingly...something – and isn’t that unusual, Merlin being unable to work out what Arthur’s expressions mean? – as his eyes move down the page. “Interesting letter. He gave you permission to read the other one. Have you?”

Lance blushes, and Merlin, though he has no idea what the letter (letters?) may say, can see he is ashamed. “I did not want to give it to him without knowing what it said. They were left under my door when I woke this morning. I do not know what time he left at, but if we leave now we can probably catch him.”

“Probably, yes. Particularly seeing as he has left directions for us to follow.” There is a whisper of sarcasm to this sentence, the same whisper Merlin is used to hearing when Gwaine talks to Lancelot, a whisper he knows he is sometimes guilty of himself. “We won’t, though; I gave him permission to go. He was supposed to tell Merlin before he went. I suppose this counts, but...I did not expect he’d do it by letter.” Arthur passes the letter back to Lancelot, who tucks it into his pocket.

“I did not know you knew about them,” Lancelot says, glancing at Merlin, who makes no effort to look like he hasn’t been listening; if they are going to talk about him while he’s in the room, he thinks he’s entitled.

Arthur nods. “I know. We are not all entirely without subtlety, Sir Lancelot. Can I see the other letter?”

Since Merlin is fairly sure by this point that the letter Arthur has just read is about him and the one he has just asked to read is for him, he intends to object. Lancelot does it for him. “No. I doubt either of them would like that.”

Before Arthur can argue that he, as the future king, has the right to read it regardless of what anyone wants, Merlin speaks up. “Can _I_ read it, please?”

“I think you should wait until later,” Lancelot tells him, and Arthur’s expression is one of unquestioning agreement.

The fact that they both know about this thing that concerns Merlin but are determined to keep it from him is enough to force his steadily simmering anger up through the fog of his tiredness and to the surface. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“No, Arthur. I want to read it. Lancelot, give me it, please.”

Arthur and Lancelot have a whole conversation without words while Merlin watches, ready to do whatever he can to get _his_ letter if their conclusion is no. Fortunately for their sakes, they decide it is okay; Lancelot takes the letter from a different pocket, walks to where Merlin is still standing next to a heap of clothes (most of which he thinks are clean, because he hasn’t seen Arthur wearing them recently), and hands him a slightly crumpled sheet of paper with Merlin’s name on the front of it.

He unfolds it carefully, smoothing out the creases before looking for the name at the bottom. Gwaine (though, really, he’d sort of guessed as much). The penmanship is neat and really rather ornate. Not what Merlin would have expected Gwaine’s writing to look like, but then he did grow up in a noble household and, from what little he has told Merlin of his mother, she isn’t the sort of person to let her sons grow up illiterate. A cursory look at the bulk of the letter shows that there is nothing crossed out, and he wonders how many times Gwaine practised writing this before he was happy.

At that point, it sinks in that he is putting this off far too much so, with a quick look up at Arthur and Lancelot (who are both decidedly looking anywhere but at him), he begins to read.

_Merlin_

_I don’t really know how to write this._

_I suppose I should start with an apology, maybe, or an explanation. So here it is: I’m sorry. I’m going home._

_By the time Lance gives you this, I’ll have been gone for a couple of hours, I hope. I don’t want you to follow me. I don’t know that you would, but I hope not._

_It’s something I’ve thought about doing since you asked me about it and now, I don’t really have a reason to stay, do I? I thought about asking you to come with me, when we were together, but I knew you would have chosen to stay with him. I don’t blame you for that. Knowing what I do, how can I?_

_I didn’t care. I know you feel terrible now that you know, but I don’t want you to. I want you to be happy, and me being here won’t help that any. It wouldn’t help me, either. I would say that the distance might let me find someone else, but I know it won’t, so I’ll just say instead that I will be back. I don’t know when, but I won’t be able to stay away forever. Camelot is my true home now. You are my true home._

_If ever you have need of me, send word and I will be there._

_Be happy, love, even if I am not._

_Yours, only and always,_

_Gwaine_

Merlin reads the letter through, twice, in complete silence. Arthur and Lancelot say nothing the whole time he is doing so, and when he looks up at the end of the second reading neither of them have moved. He folds the letter, running his nails precisely down the fold lines and pocketing it. “Thank you, Lancelot,” he says, and hears how inflectionless he sounds, without even making an effort to.

Lancelot takes a step towards him then stops, his face a picture of compassion, because apparently this is enough for him to briefly forget his anger at Merlin. “Are you okay, Merlin?”

“Yes,” Merlin answers. “I’ve been thinking, Arthur, about the problem with the crops.”

Arthur blinks at this, and Merlin supposes he can see why; as abrupt subject changes go, this is a fairly big one. But Merlin would rather talk about anything else. It will sink in soon enough that Gwaine is gone, that Arthur knew all along – and, presumably, Gwaine knew he knew – and Merlin would like to be alone when it does.

“Oh,” Arthur replies eventually. “What have you been thinking?”

“Well,” Merlin says, and aims for his usual tone of voice when talking to Arthur. “I have been thinking about unicorns.” Any other day, this would have been the cue for Arthur to call him a girl, but not, it seems, today, even when Merlin pauses to allow for it. “Now,” he continues, when Arthur says nothing, “It isn’t that I think you’re an idiot, but you do have a tendency to repeat your mistakes.”

Lancelot looks at him as if he expects an imminent breakdown. “Really, Merlin, are you sure you do not want to talk about this?”

“Quite sure, yes. Arthur, I would have thought you would have learnt from the first time, but perhaps not, which means I have to ask; you haven’t accidentally shot another unicorn and cut off its horn to hide somewhere in the vaults, have you?”

“ _Mer_ lin.” Arthur says, when it sinks in what Merlin is doing. “Do you really think that’s funny?”

To be honest, he knows full well it isn’t, but it is the best he can manage, so he fibs, poorly. “A little funny, yes.”

“To the stables, then, seeing as you were so lax in your duties yesterday.” Arthur answers, seemingly deciding to play along.

“But-” Merlin begins, and actually manages to make it sound like a genuine protest.

“It is the stables or the stocks. Your choice, Merlin.”

He sighs dramatically. “Stables it is, then,” he replies, neglecting to mention the fact that this is a task he has already done today. “I shall see you in the field when I am done, shall I?”

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur says, and Merlin heads for the door. He has seen the exasperation in Lancelot’s face, can almost feel his desire to protest the charade being enacted around him, and wants to be far away before that happens.


	2. Chapter 2

Gwaine leaves at dawn, with only his sword and a single bag. Packing is easy; a few shirts, trousers, a spare pair of boots, a decent supply of coins hidden in the lining of his bag, another few in his boots. His cloak, balled up under all his clothes, because whilst it’s still almost mild now, it won’t be for long, and it never hurts to be able to don the mask of authority and respectability if necessary, whether or not he wants to. And that’s it. He will be returning, after all; he doesn’t need to take too much with him. Everything will wait for him to get back.

Almost everything, anyway.

He doesn’t take food with him, because he doesn’t intend to need it. If he travels light and rides hard enough, he knows of an inn that won’t turn him away, one he can reach before nightfall. All that remains, he realises, is to deliver the letters he has written for Lance and Merlin, the former of which was simple, the latter so definitely wasn’t, and has filled the top drawer in the chest at his side of the bed with rough drafts that he knows he should get rid of but doesn’t have time to burn now. When it came down to it, though, he couldn’t leave without writing it, without telling Merlin that he’s gone, without telling him that he will be back.

He is happy to leave the letter for Lance somewhere for him to find, but more than a small part of him wants to deliver Merlin’s in person, wants to see him before he goes. Aside from the fact that he loathes waking Merlin, saying goodbye to his face would rather defeat the point of writing a letter in the first place, and Gwaine would prefer to leave things with the words he’s mostly sure are right than with whatever he might say out loud. He decides the best thing to do is leave both letters for Lance, and tacks a line on to the bottom of Lancelot’s asking him to deliver the other to Merlin and giving him permission to read it. The last part is mostly for Lance’s peace of mind, because Gwaine knows he will want to know what it says and will be unhappy with either giving it to Merlin unread or reading it against Gwaine’s will. It says nothing he doesn’t already know, anyway.

Gwaine walks barefoot down the halls, reducing the noise of his footsteps as much as possible. He slides the letters under Lance’s door then turns on his heel, making his way to the stables and saddling the horse he usually rides, a chestnut mare he has come to regard as his own, even if she isn’t. She whickers softly, nuzzling his hair gently he leads her by the reins to the courtyard.

“Come on, girl,” he whispers, patting her neck. “Just you and me for a few days, and then you can make some new friends.” He launches himself into the saddle with little regard for grace – it’s not as if anyone is watching him – and rides out of the city.

No one tries to stop him, but then why would they? There is no curfew in place, no need to monitor people entering or leaving the city, and knights, he has come to realise, are rarely questioned anyway, even Arthur’s collection of miscreant nobodies. The streets within the city are strangely quiet for this time of morning; even if the nobility tend not to rise before noon, many people in the city itself are up early for work. The track that leads from the city, through the woods and, eventually, to his house, is just as empty, but that at least is to be expected. Few people are foolish enough to ride through the kingdom alone unless they are entirely capable of defending themselves from whatever bandits or creatures may be lurking, and those who ride out in groups tend to leave slightly later in the day.

The autumn has been long this year, but Gwaine can tell it is coming to its end, finally. It is still warm and dry enough to travel by day, but those caught outdoors overnight are not in for a pleasant time. The season is not quite ready to release the forests, though, taking one final, gasping breath before it dies, and it is one of the most glorious sights ever seen. Gwaine rides under trees ablaze with colour, fallen leaves crunching beneath his horse’s hooves, and he is immune to almost all of it. It is beautiful, and he really couldn’t give a shit.

X

Merlin drifts to the stables, for no reason other than that he has been told to. There is only so much mess a few horses can make in an hour, and it is not enough to merit a second mucking out so soon. Spending time with non-judgemental horses is far easier than explaining that he has already done this one of his many duties and then having to spend the next however long in the company of either Arthur or Lancelot and their assessing gazes, Arthur’s uncharacteristic kindness, Lancelot’s reluctant sympathy. The horses don’t care how he is feeling when he sits in the straw next to them, curling in on himself as he pulls the letter from his pocket and stares at it.

The horses don’t care that Gwaine is gone, that he has left Merlin as surely as Merlin left him, and that his only goodbye is a declaration of love and a request for Merlin to be happy.

“Happy,” Merlin murmurs, and the horse closest to him whickers, probably in surprise. “Just how am I meant to do that?”

He has no idea. He doesn’t even have anything resembling an idea. It’s not like there are lives at stake here, and that’s about the only serious situation Merlin has any experience dealing with. Hell, he’s even pretty good at it, rarely panics too much anymore. Those are problems that can be solved, that have to be solved, with as little sacrifice as possible. Creatures can be killed, sorcerers defeated, Morgana...Morgana can be staved off until Merlin or Arthur or _someone_ is capable of dealing with her. But when the thing to be dealt with is Merlin’s unhappiness...he doesn’t know where to begin, only that he has to.

He unfolds Gwaine’s letter to him with shaking hands, rereading it as though he expects advice to have somehow appeared in the middle of it. It hasn’t, of course, but then how could it have? All that the letter does is retell Merlin what he already knows: that Gwaine loves him, that Gwaine has gone because he loves him, and that Gwaine will be back.

Gwaine will be back, and he only left because Merlin told him he would be happier without him. Of all the stupid lies he’s ever told, this is the one he has to try hardest to make true. Not just when Gwaine returns but now, because Gwaine will ask people how Merlin has been and at least Lancelot won’t think to lie. Merlin has to be happy, because Gwaine will never forgive himself if Merlin isn’t.

_Yours_ , he reads, _only and always_.

Merlin smiles – if pretending is all he can do for the moment, he’s just going to have to pretend – and stands, brushing the straw from his person, then goes to meet Arthur at the knights’ training field.

X

Stopping for lunch seems to be a waste of time when he has nothing to eat, but Gwaine takes a brief break when the sun is high to refill his flask of water from a stream and allow his horse a few minutes of rest. He picks a handful of berries from plants around him and eat them, purely because he supposes he should. He wonders in vague unconcern why crops are being struck down by whatever this blight is, and why no one is out in the forests foraging or hunting when there is so much there untouched.

When his thoughts begin to circle back to Camelot, to returning and telling them this is what they should be doing, he remounts and continues on his way, because riding manages to do something to clear his mind.

X

“ _Mer_ lin, there you are. Late as usual, I see.” Arthur’s tone is no different from how it normally is, nor are his words, but the friendly clap on the back tends to be reserved for times when Merlin has done something particularly note-worthy. Merlin doesn’t know if it’s pity or kindness or what, only that he cannot possibly deserve it, and that if Arthur knew what had really happened between Merlin and Gwaine he would look on Merlin only with scorn. Really, though, it is so much easier to ignore the fact that Arthur knows anything, and any oddities he expresses as a result of that knowledge.

“Sorry,” Merlin says, trying to make his smile just that little bit brighter, as if that will make people more likely to believe it. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be back with your armour.”

“You could do that, yes. Or I could use that set there,” Arthur nods his head at an untidy heap of steel behind Merlin.

Merlin lets his smile drop slightly, and repeats himself, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all very well, and I’m sure you are, but we are supposed to be running to a schedule here.” Merlin mentally translates from Arthur-speak to average person ( _hurry up_ ), then obeys, helping Arthur into his armour. He isn’t up to his normal speed, but he doesn’t make quite so much of a fumbling mess of it as he did yesterday, meriting him a nod, if not a smile. “Thank you,” Arthur states. “Your turn.”

Merlin blinks, confused. “My...?”

“Your turn, yes, unless you have an excellent reason why you shouldn’t join us for training?”

Arthur spins him around via a hand on his shoulder, until Merlin is looking at a second set of armour. Merlin approaches it cautiously, concerned not by the armour itself (he likes to think he has not yet reached such levels of absurdity as to be scared by a pile of metal) but by what it represents; his mistakes, his powerlessness, the fact that he is going to spend every morning for the foreseeable future getting hit at with pointy metal sticks in some twisted attempt at a _lesson_. With further examination, he sees that he hasn’t been left the full armour that Arthur and all the knights wear, only the mail shirt and helmet, a padded red shirt to wear under the chainmail and a sturdy leather belt to go over the top. “No, no reason,” he says, because whilst his wish not to end up battered, bruised and possibly bloody probably does count as a reason, Merlin accepts that learning to fight properly now without his magic might actually come in useful, eventually.

“I thought not. I trust you can put on your own mail,” Arthur pauses, waiting for Merlin to agree before concluding. “Very well. And do try not to take too long; Sir Lancelot has volunteered to supervise your training, and I am sure he will not appreciate being kept waiting.”

Merlin suspects that the word _volunteer_ means something different in Arthur’s mind to what it does in everyone else’s. Given the half-hidden anger Lancelot has for Merlin right now (and it very definitely says something about Lancelot’s character that he’s far more annoyed at Merlin for leaving Gwaine than he is at Merlin for almost killing him), it’s highly unlikely he volunteered to train Merlin; chances are, he just failed to say no quickly enough when Arthur suggested it. He pulls on the armour anyway, and then walks out onto the field holding the helmet and feeling intensely out of place. Merlin isn’t a fighter; he’s far more of a background person, lurking until such a time as he can use his magic to help out without it being noticeable (because even if more people know now, he’s still not keen on advertising it). And now he’s being dragged into the spotlight, required to learn to fight properly despite his severe lack of coordination and the fact that he’s probably more of a danger to himself when armed than he is to anyone else.

Lancelot is standing at a distance from Arthur and the rest of the knights, holding a pair of what Merlin really hopes are blunt practise swords; he doesn’t think beheading himself or Lancelot is the way to go, even if it would end this farce of a training session. He smiles even brighter as he joins him, because Lancelot is both the most important and most impossible person to be convinced of his happiness.

“Put your helmet on, please, Merlin,” Lance says, handing Merlin a sword when he complies, then proceeds to spend the next ten minutes attempting to correct his grip. Merlin has a feeling this is going to be a very long morning.

X

It isn’t quite full dark when Gwaine arrives at the tavern he’d been heading for, but his stomach is gurgling uneasily and the sky is definitely leaning towards rain. He leaves his horse in the stables, removing her saddle and brushing her down himself, then trudges, head down, through the drizzle into the inn. He sits on a lone stool by the bar, not all that interested in talking to anyone, and asks the woman behind the bar for a flagon of ale and room for the night.

“We’re full,” she tells him apologetically.

“Completely?” he asks, slipping a gold coin from his bag and showing her it as surreptitiously as he can (which, he suspects, isn’t very, because even if he’s spent as much of his life trying not to be noticed as he has fighting to be the centre of attention, he’s always been far better at standing out than fitting in). He knows a lot of places have more rooms than they let on, kept empty in case of rich passersby or nobles dropping in unexpectedly. His appearance doesn’t scream _money_ , Gwaine knows, but plenty of people dress down when travelling, particularly when alone, hiding their riches to lessen the risk of attack.

The woman looks genuinely regretful at the sight of the coin, even though a full inn suggests they can’t be all that hard up for money. “Aye,” she answers. “All rooms are full. Them with money to travel are headed to the city, looking for food other than what little they can hunt.”

Gwaine nods, resisting the impulse to say that there is plenty of food out there for any competent hunters, at least for a few more weeks. “They won’t find it, I reckon. City’s running low on supplies as well.”

“That why you left?”

“No,” he replies, and gives her the words he has said after a couple of days in any other place he has stayed but hasn’t once though in his months in Camelot. “Was just time to move on.”

She smiles, and Gwaine imagines she has seen hundreds of men like him stopping in this dull little town for a night and then carrying on, the place unchanged by either their presence or their absence. She sets a drink down on the counter before him and says, “Way things are, there’s probably a few in here who’d give up their room for what you got in your hand.”

Gwaine has met people who do that, stand at the front of a crowded tavern holding up a gold coin, offering it in exchange for a room for the night, then just wait for the volunteers. He’s sworn never to be one of them – and even though it was an oath he made before he ever imagined he’d have the means to do so, it’s surprisingly easy to keep now that he does – though he has accepted such offers at times when he’s been in need of coin and confident of winning his way into a different bed. “Probably are, yeah, but I won’t ask them to. Stables are more than good enough for the likes of me. Plate of whatever you’ve got, please, and keep the drinks coming.” He is pretty sure the look on her face is one of approval, and it warms him slightly in a way his drink has yet to manage.

She turns her back to see to some other customers and Gwaine settles himself in for getting drunk beyond all possibility of functioning like a human being before stumbling outside and passing out next to his horse in a heap of straw.

It seems this delightful plan is not to be, because before he can start his second drink and the dish of some kind of broth he is given, a man appears from somewhere behind Gwaine, holding a stool of his own. “You mind if I join you?” he asks.

Gwaine thinks – as polite as the request was – about saying no, because a drinking companion was not on his agenda for the night, but the easy smile the woman behind the bar bestows upon the man suggests he is not only a regular but a highly welcome one. Offending such a man in a place from which he has yet to be violently ejected is hardly wise, so he shrugs vaguely and slides his drink closer to him, making space.

“Most men with your kind of money wouldn’t reject a suggestion like that so quickly,” the man says, softly, sitting slightly closer than could be deemed appropriate but not so close as to merit a complaint. It is a careful distance, one Gwaine has spent some time in the past perfecting, and it is disconcerting to have someone use it on him. He slides the coin back into his bag, not wanting to flaunt his wealth (that one person has already seen it is bad enough, because whilst Gwaine knows he can protect himself and his belongings whilst awake, there is little he can do to prevent someone slitting his throat and stealing his possessions when he’s asleep), realising as he does so that the bloke next to him has followed the motion with his eyes, gaze resting on the corner of what is very definitely a Pendragon red cloak protruding from the bag. The crest isn’t visible, for which Gwaine is truly grateful, but he hides the material anyway; he’s just Gwaine outside of the city, no title or responsibility.

“I’m not most men,” he replies, wincing internally as he does so, because it sounds sickeningly like flirtation.

In response, the man gives him an appreciative once-over that makes Gwaine’s skin crawl, makes him think of the insects found in far off lands that lay their eggs inside a man’s skin, leaving their spawn to hatch and burrow their way out. He suppresses a shudder, aiming for a bland smile as the man says, “I bet you aren’t.” He offers Gwaine his hand, and Gwaine shakes it as quickly as he can before letting go. “Montague.”

“Gw-” he begins, before realising that no, he does not want to give this taller, redheaded, clean-shaven version of himself his real name. “Percival,” he concludes, the first name to appear in his brain that isn’t absurdly unusual, feminine, or belonging to royalty.

“Well, Gw-Percival,” Montague smirks, acknowledging the lie and choosing to ignore it, and raises his tankard. “Here’s to nobility, then.”

Gwaine smiles, thinking of all the bastards who have titles and all the good men who deserve them. “Nobility,” he says, “and fuck the lot of them.”

Montague’s answering look says that intends to do precisely that, starting tonight.

X

“Merlin,” Lancelot hisses, joining the queue for food just behind him.

Merlin half-turns to him, even as the line moves forwards and he moves with it. “What is it, Lancelot?” He tries not to accompany it with an eye roll, he really does.

Lancelot looks perturbed, both by the words and the tone in which they are said. “Nothing,” he answers, almost apologetically. “I was just going to ask how you are.”

“You don’t need to keep asking. Whatever you’re expecting to happen, it’s not going to.” Merlin steps up, holding out his plate for whatever food it is on offer tonight. “Thanks,” he murmurs to the girl serving, a petite brunette he recognises vaguely from some of his many trips through the kitchens. He pauses while Lancelot gets his food, then follows him to the table at which Percival and Leon are already sitting. “I’m fine,” he adds, before they reach earshot of the others. “Stop worrying about me.”

Merlin ignores Lancelot’s disbelieving frown, sitting next to Leon and starting a conversation about how long the rationing is expected to go on for.

X

Gwaine knows that this man sitting beside him is just waiting for him to get sufficiently drunk as to be amenable to the idea of leaving with him before suggesting it. He knows, because he has done it himself, more times than he can recall. The knowledge is not enough to stop him drinking, though; this is who he is. Is, was, and from now on will be, his time with Merlin just a temporary change of character, too beautiful to be anything other than fleeting.

There is a fine line between asking too soon and asking too late. The former has got Gwaine the cold shoulder (from men, usually) or slapped (for some reason, this is deemed a much more womanly response), whilst the latter carries the risk of over-protective friends or functional difficulties (not his own, of course; of all the ways Gwaine has ever felt powerless, he is proud to say he’s never been impotent in that sense). As such, he knows when to expect a line from Montague: somewhere between his third and fifth tankards.

It doesn’t happen, though. Gwaine drinks his third drink in semi-contented silence, flinching mentally every time Montague says a word to him. By the end of his fourth, Gwaine is actually capable of responding without it accidentally sounding like an invitation, and his fifth has him thinking that he has somehow managed to give the correct impression. It isn’t exactly the strongest of drinks they serve in this place, but seeing as he’s been banned from most of the taverns between the city and his home, he’s more than happy to stay, and if his drinking buddy isn’t trying to get into bed with him, he’s even more content.

Around about his seventh, when he is no longer feeling bitter but hasn’t quite made it into the territory of maudlin yet, Gwaine decides to call it a night. He’s intoxicated enough to sleep without thinking of all the things he doesn’t want to think of, but not so drunk as to risk sleeping too deeply to wake quickly if he has to.

“Aw, come on,” Montague says to him as he begins to stand. “You can’t be going yet. The stables can’t be that comfortable, can they?”

“Gods, no. But what choice do I have?” Gwaine shrugs, gathering his bag from under his seat. “Not gonna subject some other poor bastard to it just so I can sleep comfortably.”

Montague smirks at him, grabbing his wrist before he can walk away. “That wasn’t what I was suggesting, Percival.”

No, Gwaine thinks, it probably wasn’t. He shakes his head, twisting his wrist to break Montague’s grip. “No,” he says. “Thanks, but no.”

“Really?” Montague replies. “ _Just time to move on_? And no one drinks like this if they’ve someone to go home to.” He points to the window; Gwaine follows the gesture to see the rain hammering against the glass. Fuck, does he not want to go out there, but he is going to. And then Montague’s smirk widens, and he plays what his presumably his best card. “I’d say you’ve got more than a few reasons to say yes. What reason have you got to say no?”

_Merlin_ , a voice in Gwaine’s head whispers, but he pushes it down, blocks it out. Merlin left him, and he left Camelot because of him. People don’t change, he knows; this is who he is, and the sooner he gets past the stumbling block that is his heart, the better. “None,” he says, smiling like it doesn’t hurt him to say it, because the fact that he loves someone who will never love him back is no reason at all. “No reason, as long as your house isn’t any further away than next door.”

“My house is miles away. I’ve got a room upstairs, though.”

X

“Are you going to eat that? Merlin?”

Merlin blinks, looking up from the plate before him. “Hmm?” he asks, in as much as _hmm_ can be a question.

“You’ve done nothing but push your food from one place to another all meal,” Elyan says. “I just thought, even if you aren’t hungry, the rest of us are.”

Merlin returns his gaze to his food, noticing how much he has mixed it about, how truly unappealing he finds it. He pushes the plate away from him. “Split it between you all,” he says, rising to his feet.

“I do _not_ think so,” Lancelot announces, with a look that has Merlin retaking his seat. He slides the plate back in front of Merlin. “You did not finish your meal yesterday evening, nor did you eat with us at breakfast or lunch.” That much is true, at least; Merlin was busy with Arthur’s horses and hounds during breakfast, and spent what would usually have been lunchtime cleaning mud from his armour (Lancelot decided, after Merlin attempted to dodge his first swing and landed flat on his arse, that the first thing Merlin really needed to learn was how to fall safely. Never mind that he’s been quite happy falling as he does for years, and never had anything serious to show for it).

“I’m not hungry,” Merlin tells Lance, knowing as he does so that it isn’t going to fly as an excuse, even if it’s true. The degree to which it does not fly is so high that Lancelot doesn’t even bother to say anything, just looks steadily at Merlin until he picks up his fork and begins eating.

X

The first time Gwaine offered himself in exchange for a warm meal and a bed for the night, he was seventeen and had only just left home. It wasn’t his first – that dubious honour belongs to a girl from the village near his home, on the night of his fifteenth name day – but it might as well have been, for all his fumbling uncertainty. He was drunk then, as well, on ale bought and paid for by the man whose bed he intended to share. Not as drunk as he has been on many a night in the years since, but enough to drown out the voices telling him what he was about to do was not wise.

The voices are far more persistent today, possibly because he’s spent so long _listening_ to them.

It isn’t that he’s always drunk before bedding people, or even that he always wants to be. It’s just that sometimes his brain decides growing a conscience – except he already has one of them, he maintains; this is less a conscience and more a ridiculously high set of morals where sex is concerned – is a good idea, and if he doesn’t do something to deal with it, it really rather ruins his fun. The voices are entirely unnecessary, anyway; just because he doesn’t have rules as strict as, say, Lancelot does, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have rules. Gwaine might be easy, might be perfectly content to shag strangers and leave them before they wake, but he has his limits, whatever people might think. He does not permit anyone to pay for his drinks when he has the money to do so himself, never fails to picked his target himself (not that he’s averse to people approaching him, but his decision is the one that matters), never – not since that first time – follows their lead entirely without protesting.

Tonight, he breaks all these rules, and more, and remembers just why he has them all.

Montague rises to leave, and Gwaine mimics him, rooting through his bag for a coin or two to cover his food and drinks. He stills in his search when a hand wraps around his right arm, just below the elbow and Montague leans in closer that he really has to in order to talk to him. “Leave it,” he says, breath whispering against Gwaine’s ear. “I’ll cover it some other time; they’ll know you left with me.” Gwaine nods, because continuing looking is ridiculous when he just wants to get this over with, and follows him from the room, wondering how long he has been staying here, how many people have walked after him as Gwaine is doing now, stomach churning with something that doesn’t feel as much like lust as it should do.

X

Merlin feels like he is eating forever. He moves forkful after forkful from his plate to his mouth, chews for an unbearably long time, then swallows – twice, sometimes, when it feels like the food stick in his throat – and yet the pile of food before him never seems to get any smaller.

Leon leaves as soon as he finishes his own meal, before Merlin is even halfway through eating, and Percival goes not a whole lot after that. Elyan seems to hold out in the hope that Lancelot will allow Merlin to give away his food eventually, if he so chooses, but eventually works out that this is not the case.

Merlin looks up occasionally, gauging Lancelot’s willingness to let him leave, but his face remains stern, unrelenting.

X

“How do you want to do this?” Montague asks, closing and locking the door behind them. He leans against it, watching Gwaine like he owns him, like he can be bought for the price of a hot meal and a few drinks. And maybe he can, and has been in the past, but it has never felt so obvious. Gwaine knows he shouldn’t feel trapped, when he is here of his own accord, but he does.

“Any way you want,” he answers, because he is doing this, because not doing this is not an option. Not doing this will mean something, and that something is not something he wants to consider. “How do you want me?” he says, smiling like there is nothing he wants more than to be used by this man.

“Well,” Montague smirks, predatorily, showing an alarming number of teeth. He stalks away from the door, puts his hands on Gwaine’s waist. “Well.”

X

“Well, I’m done,” Merlin says. “Can I leave now?” He knows he sounds like a petulant child, which is hardly going to encourage Lancelot to deal with his current not-fondness for Merlin, but he’s fairly sure he’s old enough to decide whether or not he’s hungry and being treated like he isn’t is not fun.

Even so, he sort of regrets it when he sees Lancelot’s stern face melt into an almost-sad one. “I am concerned for you, Merlin. That is all this is.”

“Yes,” Merlin replies, well aware that he shouldn’t but unwilling to stop himself. “And your concern worked out just fine last time, didn’t it?”

He leaves before Lancelot can think up something to say in response.

X

_Stop_ , Gwaine wants to say, as Montague’s fingers unbuckle his belt, placing it, his sword and his knife carefully – almost reverently – on a chest at the foot of the bed. He wants to pull away from the feeling of Montague’s mouth on his skin, his hands in his hair. _I’ve changed my mind_ , he wants to tell him.

His body, though, is showing a far more appropriate level of interest. Some instinct has kicked in, he thinks, causing his hands to aid in the removal of clothing, his mouth to return each and every kiss, his tongue to say all and only the words one would expect to hear.

And all the time he is reminding himself that he isn’t being unfaithful in doing this, that he has no one to be unfaithful to anymore, that Merlin wants him to move on. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

But then, he didn’t really expect it to.

X

Merlin has no reason not to return to his room in Gaius’ chambers. The news that Gwaine has left the city will reach Gaius soon enough, if it hasn’t already, and the fact that it was something to do with Merlin will make it to him before too long, if Lancelot has anything to do with the matter. Even so, Merlin doesn’t want to be back in his tiny room, under Gaius’ supervision (not, of course, that Lancelot’s supervision is likely to be a whole lot better). For as long as it takes Gaius to discover he and Gwaine are no longer together, Merlin can stay elsewhere without too much in the way of inquisitions taking place, and when Gaius does find out...well, he can cross that bridge when he comes to it.

His first impulse is to sleep in Gwaine’s room, since the assurance that he will be returning means that no one will be moving into his room in the meantime. No one will know if Merlin stays there until he has to move back to his own room and, most probably, no one will care. But if Gwaine has gone because Merlin will no longer allow himself to rely on him, Merlin can hardly let himself rely on him in his absence, even in something as small this.

And so, ridiculous as it is, Merlin finds himself curling up in the same place he did the last night, again accepting the improbability of sleep finding him.

X

It takes less time than it should for Gwaine to go from fully dressed to kneeling naked in Montague’s bed, the sheets itchy against his lower legs and palms, of a quality he was used to not so long ago but which now feels coarse and unfamiliar. The stabilising hand laid flat on his stomach is equally foreign, as is the heavy breathing in his hair, the biting, sucking mouth that he knows will leave marks on his back and neck, the second hand that succeeds in doing things that make him moan, have him dancing on the edge of release for ages, but are not the things Merlin would do.

It is good, yes, possibly even excellent, but when the warm body above him shudders into orgasm only moments after himself, there are no flashes of light or sounds of things breaking, no mysterious floating objects or explosions of colour.

It is good, certainly, but it is not magic.

It is not _Merlin_.

Gwaine does not realise until he is standing before the mirror washing away the evidence of what they have just done, Montague watching proprietarily from the bed, that the taste of salt on his lips is the result of a steady trickle of tears from his eyes.

He ignores them, because doing otherwise would require an explanation and there are some things he likes to keep to himself.

X

Gwaine wakes early, slowly, the inside of his mouth tasting like dead squirrel – and not exactly feeling a whole lot different – with an arm flung carelessly over his middle. Part of his brain tells him to stay there, content and warm, whilst the other half is still trying to process what it is about the arm that is giving him the strong sense that something is not right. The second, far more sensible half of his brain wins, largely just by informing him that this isn’t Merlin he’s lying with, that he isn’t in Camelot anymore, and he spends a long minute trying to decide how best extricate himself before lifting the arm carefully, gingerly, and beginning to slide out from underneath it.

The first sign that this is not to be is the slight tensing of muscles in the arm he is holding. Gwaine freezes, in the hope that it was in response to something in a dream and if he stays very, very still, Montague will not wake. A low, sleepy chuckle follows his sudden stillness and the arm he is holding up wriggles free from his grasp to close around his waist again, hand resting somewhat lower than it had been before.

“Leaving so soon?” Montague murmurs, shuffling forwards until his chest is flush against Gwaine’s back. “And not even a kiss goodbye.”

“If I thought you were only after a kiss,” Gwaine says, removing the hand from his cock even as Montague presses his own against Gwaine’s arse, “I wouldn’t have too much of a problem. As it is, I have a long ride today, and it’s already going to be uncomfortable enough.”

“Then wait until tomorrow.”

“I don’t think so.” Gwaine moves away from him, sitting up with his feet over the edge of the bed and looking for his clothing. “Places to go, people to see.” He stands and dresses swiftly, ignoring Montague’s protests until such a time as his boots are laced and his belt buckled. “Stop whining,” he says, sheathing his knife and shouldering his bag. “I’m pretty sure you can find someone else with no difficulty at all.”

“Yeah, probably,” Montague answers, laughing. “You know, if all the rest of the knights in Camelot are like you, I’m going to enjoy it there more than I expected.”

Gwaine stops walking halfway to the door. “What?”

“I’m on my way to the city. I hear Prince Arthur knights commoners, and I’ve always wanted a title.”

“You?” Gwaine asks, because nothing of Montague’s character that he has seen so far lends itself to knighthood, and he’s fairly sure Arthur is regretting granting one drunken slut a title, let alone being willing to offer one to a second.

“He let you in, didn’t he?” Montague states, voice still on the edge of laughter, and seeing as Gwaine just thought pretty much the same thing he’s not exactly in a position to disagree. “Anyway, _Percival_ , I can take a message back for you, if you care to give me your real name?”

“I’m alright, thanks,” Gwaine answers, wincing; in his need to escape, he’d forgotten that little detail. “In fact, I reckon we just pretend this never happened.” Gwaine leaves, quickly, before the contents of his stomach can escape. He has done some cheap things before, but to sell himself so blatantly that he is too fucking ashamed to give his real name...

He makes it all the way to the stall in the stables where his horse is rested before throwing up.

X

Merlin really hopes that, wherever Gwaine may have laid his head last night, he slept somewhat better than Merlin did.

“Come on, Merlin,” Lancelot says softly. “Just do what I do.” He repeats whatever it is he just did, some fancy sword waving thing that Merlin can’t follow.

He tries, he honestly does, but he isn’t even sure he’s holding his sword correctly – even if that was the focus of the start of yesterday’s lesson – and the jaw cracking yawn midway through his attempt doesn’t help matters. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking over Lancelot’s shoulder to where Arthur is leading the other knights in drills that look very fancy and synchronised and _easy_. “I’m just not good at things like this. I’ve never had to be.”

He sounds whiny and desperate for sympathy, which is ridiculous given that he’s talking to Lancelot, but Lance is fool enough to offer it anyway (Lancelot’s anger, it seems, is failing miserably to hold up against his natural inclination towards niceness). “I know, Merlin. Gwaine and I voted against it, and will continue to do so until Arthur changes his mind.”

“Well, you’re an idiot. And Gwaine isn’t here.”

Lancelot takes this well (Merlin just considers it confirmation of his statement, which was meant entirely seriously), laughing kindly, and says, “He is coming back, he told you that. Until then, he has written that he agrees with me in any votes.”

“He’s more of an idiot than you are, then,” Merlin says. “Not that I didn’t know that already.”

Lancelot responds slightly less well to this remark. “Pick your sword back up, Merlin. Arthur told me when he entrusted me with your training that if you don’t try hard enough Percival will take over, and I do not think he was joking.” Merlin glances very briefly at Percival – who is a truly decent man, for all that he is incredibly difficult to hold a conversation with, but Merlin really doesn’t want to fight him, _ever_ , not even as a lesson – before obeying. “Thank you,” Lancelot says. “Now, this is what you want to do.”

X

Gwaine has been riding for a couple of hours, judging by the motion of the sun, before he comes across a small lake. The temperature has barely risen above what it was when he left the inn that morning, stubborn traces of frost still clinging to the ground in patches of shade, but the lake looks flat and pure and _clean_ , and if there is one thing Gwaine does not feel right now, that is it.

He loops his horse’s reins around a low tree branch, strips – leaving his clothes in a heap on a large stone by the lakeside – and wades in. The water is fucking freezing, and by the time he is waist deep he can no longer feel his toes. He carries on walking anyway, until the water starts getting shallower again, at which point he takes a deep breath and ducks his head under the surface.

All he succeeds in doing is feeling cold, and no cleaner at all; Gwaine splashes back out of the water, dries himself as best he can with his shirt, and redresses in fresh clothing from his bag, all the while shaking like a leaf.

X

Merlin spends his morning desperately attempting to mimic the basic thrusts and parries Lancelot is trying to teach him. By lunchtime, he is dripping with sweat, more exhausted than he previously thought possible, and seriously reassessing his thought that Lancelot’s anger towards him might be waning. He wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep, anywhere; he sort of thinks he might actually be tired enough to succeed in getting a good couple of hours.

When he tells Lancelot this, the only response he gets is, “It is lunchtime. Come on. You can sleep later.”

Merlin follows Lance to the mess hall very reluctantly, but forces himself into eating a full plate of food. By the time he is finished and is considering still trying to get a little more sleep (telling Arthur whatever lie he must in order to justify his absence), Gaius has made his way to the room to ask Merlin to join him in his chambers; it is time he took another dose of potion, and Gaius has questions with regards to any side-effects Merlin might have noticed.

He obeys, again, both because protesting is too much effort and because arguing against taking the potion that binds his magic probably won’t go down well. A half hour of being poked and prodded and asked questions that seem to him to be far too personal, Gaius gives him a hideous brown liquid to drink – Merlin is glad he was unconscious the last time he had to take it, because it is _foul_ – pats him on the back, and asks, “How are you faring, Merlin?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Merlin answers, but doesn’t say anything more, largely because he doesn’t know whether Gaius is asking in relation to Merlin’s lack of magic or the fact that Gwaine has gone.

Gaius nods in a slow, sceptical way, but does not press the matter. “Okay, then. If you’re not busy this afternoon with helping Arthur, I have a list of herbs I’ll need to have more of before winter sets in.”

“What do you need?” Merlin asks, saying goodbye to his afternoon of rest.

X

Gwaine stops somewhat earlier than he would like to, but his – in hindsight, more than slightly unwise – swimming trip has left him freezing. The tavern he happens across is pretty similar to their tavern back in Camelot, bright and pleasant, but all Gwaine really cares about is the fact that it is not fully occupied and that there is a roaring fire in the main room.

His first request is for a room for the night, his second for a mug of ale, and his third is that the bloke sitting next to the fire budge up enough that Gwaine can wedge a chair in close enough to singe his eyebrows.

As the bar fills up and he gets closer and closer to being properly wasted, that manages to be about the extent of his conversation, at least for a few hours.

“No, thank you,” he says, when the brunette, bold as brass, tells him he looks lonely sitting all by himself, and wouldn’t he like to join her and her friends at their table? The girl looks disappointed, but leaves with nothing more than a casual, “If you change your mind...”

The second girl to approach him, a blonde a couple of years older than he is, comes about an hour later and is not quite so quick to give up. “Buy me a drink?” she asks, sitting next to him and leaning more than a little too far over. She places a hand on his thigh and squeezes gently.

“Sorry,” Gwaine says. “Not interested.” He moves her hand away and scoots his chair backwards, out of her reach.

Or he would have been, had she not leant even further over; so far that Gwaine is slightly concerned that her breasts are going to fall out of her dress. They don’t, but that does not mean he is happy to have them displayed so blatantly before him. Some small part of him wants to go with her, wherever she wants him to go – he is only human after all, and she is putting on quite a show for him, even if she is probably expecting payment for it later – but the majority of him is thinking of what he did last night, what he felt this morning. He is thinking, gods-fucking- _damn_ him, of Merlin, and the fact that he is different now. Thanks to Merlin, he is not who he once was.

He knew, obviously, that he wasn’t the same. He knew that Merlin meant something to him that other people hadn’t, that no one had, but that he would walk away from a girl like this, blonde and beautiful and throwing herself at him, was not something he’d expected. But he is, because he cannot possibly do something that will make him feel like he did this morning.

It isn’t just that he lied about his name, or that Montague knows he lied. It isn’t even that Montague is making his way to Camelot, though it does sicken him that Merlin may soon know of what he has done, only a matter of days after things ended between them, after Gwaine left him that letter, the most honest, awful thing he has ever told anyone. And not just Merlin, but Arthur, who gave Gwaine permission to go, against his better judgement, and Lancelot, who messed everything up and seriously regretted it afterwards, who believes Merlin loves Gwaine just as much as Gwaine loves Merlin.

It is Gwaine, and only Gwaine. Gwaine and the way he lives, thinks, feels, and how they will never be the same.

“I said I’m not interested, thanks.” The blonde pouts – as blondes of Gwaine’s acquaintance are wont to do – and then opens her mouth to protest somehow. “Not. Interested.” He pulls his chair even further away, far enough that he can stand without hitting her as he does so, then leaves the bar for his room. Because, gods yes, does he want to be getting drunk out of his mind, drunk enough to forget what he is doing, but he’d really rather be alone.

And that, he thinks, as he huddles himself under his blankets behind a locked door, is something of a first to him.

X

After three nights of very little sleep, an exhausting morning that served only to show how abysmal he is at non-magical self-defence, and an afternoon of hunting down ridiculously difficult to locate herbs, Merlin actually imagines sleep might not be as difficult to reach as it has been lately.

Merlin is an idiot.

It shouldn’t just be recent events that tell him this, because most of his decisions since the day he obeyed his mother’s wish for him to come to Camelot have been none too smart. But the last few days – the last few months, even – have been examples of almost prize-winning stupidity. He tries his best, he really does, to smile and pretend he is neither tired nor unhappy, but he knows he isn’t doing too well. Lancelot has to know how he is feeling, and Gaius is not nearly as oblivious as Merlin would like him to be. The real question is Arthur.

Then again, when isn’t it?

Arthur knew. Two days, and Merlin thinks he is coming to terms with that. His – he doesn’t even know how to describe Arthur, and what he is to him – master, friend, the man he loves, knew that he was with another friend, and yet said nothing. Arthur knows that it is now over, and – beyond the odd question about how Merlin is feeling – has still said nothing. Arthur knows most things, except for how much Merlin loves him, and chose to pretend none of it was happening, chooses now to continue pretending, and Merlin cannot work out _why_.

It isn’t for lack of trying, of course. Of all the thoughts keeping him awake most of the night, the only thing that features more often than why Arthur is feigning ignorance of Merlin’s current mental state are memories of how easy it was to sleep when he was tired, content, and had a warm body lying next to him.

Merlin skips dinner entirely that evening, because imagining he can sleep if he only keeps his eyes closed long enough is so much more fun than enduring Lancelot’s glaring for as long as it takes him to eat his meal.

X

Four days after the morning he snuck out of Camelot, Gwaine arrives on the doorstep of his childhood home.

It stands just as he remembers it being, grey and cold and far too huge for just the four of them to rattle around inside. Three, once he left, with no intention of ever returning for more than a couple of days at a time.

He doesn’t know if it’s exhaustion from the journey, the result of the long series of bad decisions he’s made recently or what, but Gwaine is just a little bit scared.

X

Merlin spends three long and largely sleepless nights in Arthur and Gwen’s meeting room before giving up. He isn’t going to become any less of an insomniac just by trying, and no one has noticed that he isn’t sleeping somewhere he is supposed to be – or asked him about it, at least – so he has no reason to move from one place that isn’t his room to another place that isn’t his room.

He knows Gwaine isn’t living in the city, that if he is staying in Gwaine’s room he will be staying there alone, but he’s alone now wherever he is. It won’t be forever, anyway, just until he starts sleeping easier, or until someone questions him.

Gwaine won’t know. No one will know, and no one will get hurt.

X

It is just after sunset when Gwaine dismounts from his horse, loops the reins around a bar on the gate, then walks down the path to the front door. Walks _slowly_ , because now that he’s here, he isn’t entirely sure about things. His mother will be pleased to see him, he knows (and pauses to admire her rose beds, which really do look excellent. His mother has always been good with plants, both decorative and edible), and Gareth. The real problem, he thinks as he resumes walking and knocks carefully on the door (for reasons unknown, since it is sort of still his house), is Bertram.

The door opens, the person on the other side holding up a lantern. Gwaine blinks, squints slightly until the lantern is lowered a little. “Well,” a voice says, and Gwaine can hear the smirk in it. It would be, of course, because with the way his life has been lately it would have gone entirely against his luck for a family member who actually likes him to open the door. “Look what we have here,” Bertram continues.

“Bertie,” Gwaine replies, and is just a little pleased to see the smirk turn into a sneer, even as he resigns himself to waiting outside until someone else comes to investigate the cold draft. “How’ve you been?”

“Well. A little late in the year to be travelling, isn’t it?” He sniffs, and it’s like the entirety of the blame for the changing seasons is to be laid at Gwaine’s feet. “Particularly from...where is it that you’re staying now? Mercia?”

Gwaine laughs, less because he finds the question funny than because if there was anything that could win him his older brother’s respect it would be telling him that he’s spent more than half of the last year fighting as a knight in one of the best forces in the land. “Camelot,” he answers simply. “Mercia was at least a year ago.”

“Was it?” Bertram holds the lantern up again, and Gwaine feels his scrutiny like it’s something solid brushing against his skin. He wishes he didn’t reek of sweat and horse and drink, wishes he wasn’t wearing clothes dirtied and wrinkled from days of riding. And then Bertram’s gaze locks onto his neck, the blush of a bruise that hasn’t quite faded yet, and Gwaine really just wishes he wasn’t quite as much of an idiot as he actually is. “You haven’t changed, I see, little brother.”

“Did you really think I would?” Gwaine replies. About the only thing that can make him happy right now is pissing off his pompous arse of a brother, and if pretending to be the same unattached drunkard he’s always been is going to help him become that person again, that’s just a bonus.

Bertram stands sneering at him – in complete silence – for a disturbingly long period of time, during which Gwaine fidgets from foot to foot. Despite his best intentions not to break first, he fails; the silence is just too much for him, as silence always has been.

“So, since you aren’t going to let me in the house anytime soon, I’m going to take my girl to the stables.” Gwaine gestures over his shoulder at his horse, just in case Bertram thinks he actually intends to keep a girl in the stable. “Maybe you can go confer with Mother while I’m gone, tell her her shameful scoundrel of a son kind of wants to see her.”

Gwaine turns his back before he can get a reply, though does not walk away fast enough not to hear the door thud shut behind him.

X

He takes his time seeing to his horse, knowing from past visits (the last of which was really far too long ago, even if he has sent letters in the years since then) that there is no point hurrying. His brother certainly won’t be, if he has even bothered to find their mother and tell her. He grooms his horse himself, waving away the assistance of a stable boy, at least a decade younger than himself, who looks mildly astonished at the presence of a strange horse and even stranger man in his stables. Gwaine is not a whole lot less shocked, since after his father’s death, they kept the house and not a whole lot more, shutting up unused rooms, selling furniture, and letting go of all their servants but for a maid who grew up with his mother, came with her when she married and refused to leave even when they told her they could no longer pay her. And now they apparently have a stable-hand and – since it is hardly the most crucial of servants – probably other household servants as well.

Gwaine pokes his head out of the stall when he’s done grooming and has hung the saddle and reins on hooks on the wall, only to see the boy watching him with a deeply concerned expression. “Food?” he asks, then tries not to laugh as he wonders just how much wider the boy’s eyes can get.

“F-food?” stutters the boy (the answer to Gwaine’s question is, alarmingly, very, and he’d really rather like it if the kid would blink before his eyes pop out of their sockets).

“For the horse?” He has to take sympathy with the boy then, given how alarmed he still looks. “It’s fine, I’m family. They know I’m here, too. Gwaine.” He sticks his hand out to be shaken, and the boy takes it with visible reluctance, letting go quickly. Gwaine waits for a moment, before speaking further. “Okay then. Sort of expected a name, kid. But never mind. You find something for her to eat, and I’ll go see if Bertie has seen fit to alert my mother to my presence.” He gives his horse a final pat on the nose, lets himself out of the stall, and then walks back up the path to the front door.

Knocking on the door a second time feels even more ridiculous than it did the first, particularly seeing as Gwaine can hear an argument on the other side of the door, and he doesn’t think it’s arrogance to imagine it’s probably about him. He expects to wait until the argument is over, but the door opens only a matter of seconds after he knocks.

“Gwaine, right?” A woman Gwaine doesn’t recognise – small and slender, with light brown hair and a kind smile – says. “Come in, they’ll be done soon.” She bustles him into the house, closing and locking the door behind him. “Sorry, Bertram can be...well, your mother will win soon enough, and there’s no sense leaving you out in the cold until then.”

“Thanks,” Gwaine replies, then has to ask. “Don’t mean to be rude, but who are you?”

“Rebekah. I’m his wife.”

“His...you married _Bertram_?” Frankly, the idea that anyone would want to marry his brother is something of a shock to him, but that a woman who actually knows how to smile (and laugh, as she’s doing now) would choose to spend the rest of her life with stick-up-his-arse Bertram?

She pats him on the arm, amused rather than offended by his surprise. “Yes, well, someone had to.”

Gwaine laughs then (his brother married someone who knows what a joke is?), surprising his mother and brother from their argument at the other end of the hall. His mother turns to look at him, smiling brightly as she walks – slower than Gwaine remembers her being – towards him.

“Gwaine,” she says, as he leans down to press a kiss to her cheek. “It’s been too long,” she chides.

“Clearly, yes.” Her hair is far more grey than the last time he was around, her face more wrinkled and, when she reaches up to pat his cheek, he sees her hands are shaking. In the however many years since he last returned home, his mother has grown _old_. “A lot seems to have changed.”

“Indeed,” Bertram cuts in. “It has here, at least. You’ve met Rebekah.” There is a certain level of show-off-iness to his final sentence, entirely at odds with the implicit criticism of Gwaine in the one before. The aura of pride grows even stronger as he continues. “You’ll meet our daughter in the morning, assuming you can stay quiet enough not to wake her tonight.”

“Dau- okay, someone marrying you is one thing, but that she’s willing to procreate with you?” If Gwaine could have held that comment in, he really would have done, particularly seeing as his mother doesn’t seem too impressed with him for it either.

“And how many bastards have you fathered these last few years, little brother? At least I’m capable of demonstrating some sort of commitment to a girl before I try to get her on her back.”

“Boys! Enough, the pair of you.”

Gwaine bites back whatever retort he was going to give, because his mother is no less fierce for all that she has aged; he half expects her to wallop him, as she would have done if she’d caught he and Bertram fighting like that when they were kids. It doesn’t stop him from glaring, but it’s not like Bertram isn’t glaring back, and both of them have the sense not to say anything more.

“That’s better, thank you. Bertram, why don’t you go find Gareth. I’m sure he’d like to see his brother.” Gwaine watches his mother stare down his older brother like she doesn’t think for a second like she might not win. It’s something to see, it really is, particularly when he thinks how many times he’s lost similar matches in the past.

Eventually, Bertram nods and leaves, sending a final sneer at Gwaine as he walks past him to the front door. His mother nods. “Excellent. Gwaine, take your bag upstairs; your old room should be fine, if a little dusty. Change into something clean, and I’ll see about finding you something to eat. Rebekah, be a dear and ask Ellen to get a fire started in Gwaine’s room, would you, please?”

Rebekah nods, following Gwaine to the stairs at the other end of the hall while his mother makes her way to the kitchen. “Ellen?” Gwaine asks.

“My maid. Your family’s now, I suppose. My father insisted she came here with me. You’ll have met Rolf, her son, in the stables, I assume?”

“The mouse? Yeah, I met him.” He pulls an apologetic face. “Might’ve...alarmed him, a little.”

“It happens.” She pauses at the top of the stairs, clearly intending to go in the opposite direction to Gwaine. Gwaine waits, as well, wondering what it is that she wants to say. “It’s nice to meet you, Gwaine. I’ve heard so much about you.”

He laughs, wants to say that nothing good could have been said about him in Bertram’s hearing, but doesn’t; Rebekah is quite clearly making shushing faces. “Thank you. If you could try stay quiet as you go, as well. Molly is a nightmare to get to sleep.”

Gwaine nods, walking away to the room that used to be his, and will be again for however long he stays. It is dusty, as his mother had said it would be, but not as bad as it could be. It’s also cold, but that will change as soon as a decent fire gets going. A fire that he is more than capable of lighting himself, but seeing as someone is coming to see to it anyway, he might as well wait. He drops his bag on the bed – stepping back quickly to avoid inhaling the puff of dust this causes – then rummages for something slightly more respectable to wear.

His shirt is halfway over his head when there is a quiet tapping on his door, and Gwaine is left with the options of finishing removing it and having his first meeting with his brother’s wife’s maid half-naked, or not. He chooses not, possibly the first time has done so, and not just because he’ll never hear the end of it from Bertram.

He opens the door to a slight, blonde woman, carrying a bowl and a pitcher of water (and yet who still manages to curtsy at him in a remarkably graceful way, something Merlin could never manage even if he practiced for a year, and Gwaine curses his brain for even thinking of making the comparison). “Master Gwaine, sir,” she says, rising and placing the bowl on a wooden dresser by the door. “Your lady mother thought you might like to wash before dining, sir.”

Gwaine can tell already that that’s going to get very old, very quickly, and decides it’s best to nip it in the bud as soon as possible. “Thank you. Now, stop that, please.”

“Stop what, sir?” she asks, bobbing a second curtsy before kneeling on the rug in front of the fireplace and laying out the materials for a fire.

“That. No _sir_ , no _master_. Just Gwaine.” He thanks the gods that Merlin was never that absurdly deferential, or Gwen, and that he managed to avoid forming any sort of connection with any of the castle servants who were. Then again, if Merlin hadn’t been quite so efficient at speaking his mind and refusing to be cowed by those with power over him, Gwaine probably wouldn’t have fallen quite so hard for him.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Ellen-the-disturbingly-complaisant-maid replies, and Gwaine is _that_ close to smacking his head against a wall, but settles instead for taking himself, his clean clothing, and his washing water behind the dressing screen in the corner. He’s always considered them a pointless invention – the only time the one in his room in Camelot was ever used was when he hid behind it in order to jump out at Merlin and shout “boo!” (because he might have consistently lost the _who can be a bigger tease_ game, but he was pretty damn good at scaring the shit out of Merlin when he wanted to) – but is now really rather grateful for it, largely because it allows him to run and hide from Little Miss Deference without it looking like that’s what he’s doing.

He washes and changes quietly, and is busy weighing up the merits and detriments of going downstairs armed (not his sword, that would be ridiculous, but perhaps his dagger would be okay) when the fire catches and the maid asks, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you, Ellen.” Gwaine waits until he is sure she has scurried from the room before stepping out from behind the screen and placing his sword and bag under his bed, knife on the bedside table.

He joins his mother in the kitchen, a decently stacked plate of food on the table waiting for him. Surprisingly well stacked, given the food situation in Camelot has been the same in all the places he’s stopped on the way. “This is too much,” he says, polite but firm. “I don’t need all this.”

“Nonsense,” his mother answers. “You’ll eat it all. Bertram told me you’ve come from Camelot. Journey like that, you need a good meal.”

Gwaine rolls his eyes and obeys, because everyone who has known his mother for more than a couple of hours knows better than to protest anything she says twice. “It’s good, thank you.” She smiles approvingly, and allows him to eat in silence for a couple of minutes until they hear the door slam very loudly, then open and close again much more quietly. Footsteps move down the hall at an almost run, and Gwaine has just enough time to stand and brace himself before the kitchen door opens.

His brother walks in, and Gwaine feels just a little bit stupid, standing carefully between his mother and the door, brandishing the knife from his plate in a highly unthreatening way.

“Quite a greeting, that,” Gareth says, looking at him like he’s mad (he isn’t, or at least no more than most people, and Arthur would be pretty impressed with Gwaine’s reaction if he’d done the same thing in Camelot). Gwaine puts the knife down and tries to decide whether attempting to explain would be better than pretending nothing odd has just happened. Gareth saves him making the choice by hugging him – a much warmer greeting than Bertram’s, but then that’d been what Gwaine expected – and saying, “Remind me not to sneak up on you when you’re eating, brother. I’m rather fond of not being stabbed.”

“It’d make quite a mess, too,” Gwaine laughs, sitting back at the table and kicking out the chair next to him for Gareth to sit. “And you know Ma would only nag until I cleaned it up.” He smiles at the pair of them, thinking that perhaps coming here was actually a good idea for more reasons than just getting away from Merlin. They don’t expect him to be the man he’s been in Camelot, or the hollow wreck he sort of is now and, much as he loves serving in Camelot (to his surprise), it’s nice to be with people who don’t know what he can be. “So, what do you have to tell me?”

X

“Arthur!” Leon’s voice is sharp and insistent, surprisingly awake for the current hour, and accompanied by a harsh rap on the door.

“‘Koff,” Arthur murmurs, still mostly asleep and Merlin, kneeling before the fireplace trying determinedly to get a spark to catch (and thinking fondly of all the morning he used magic to do this, quickly and simply, before Arthur woke up), has to laugh. The fire catches as he does so, and he stands to let Leon in (or, preferably, try to persuade him to return later when Arthur is somewhat more awake and consequently slightly less irritable). Before he can, Leon enters of his own accord, closing and locking the door behind him (Merlin finds this distinctly uncomfortable, but it is hardly his place to protest).

“I understand it’s early, sire,” he begins, courteous despite the fact that being instructed to _‘koff_ is hardly cheering. “However, we have a situation.”

Arthur sits, yawning, and Merlin shivers just looking at him; the castle is far too cold to be sleeping shirtless, even if Merlin does quite enjoy the view. “A week. Just the one, without any creatures or threats or _situations_ to deal with. Is that really too much to ask?” Arthur pauses, mostly for dramatic effect, Merlin thinks, before concluding. “What is it this time, Leon?”

Merlin’s opinion that Arthur’s time would be better spent asking _who_ the problem is rather than what is confirmed with Leon’s answer. “Your father, sire. He believes he has identified the informant.”

Merlin stumbles on the way to Arthur’s wardrobe to find the prince something to wear, managing to right himself before he can fall completely. “And has he?” Arthur asks, and Merlin holds his breath as he waits for an answer.

“No. I suspect the woman he intends to execute is the source of...of the informant’s information, but I believe the truth is known only to the four of us.”

“Five,” Merlin corrects: himself, Arthur, Leon, Gwaine, and whoever Gwaine heard it from. “Five of us know.”

Arthur looks at him coldly for a moment before accepting the shirt Merlin is offering him, pulling it over his head as he walks behind his dressing screen so that Merlin can provide him with trousers as well.

“I just meant,” Merlin says, “that you don’t have to keep talking about _the informant_. Who is the woman?” That is really the pressing issue here, anyway, not Arthur’s determination to hide Gwaine’s part in the matter, even from Merlin.

Leon shrugs. “A minor cook, not someone I’ve met, though you may know her, Merlin. She was reported to have been acting suspiciously, showing _unreasonable levels of fear_ once the rationing became universal.”

Arthur emerges, pulling a jacket over his shoulders, and takes over asking the questions. “Did anyone see her talking to our inform – yes, Merlin, I know you know, but whilst using his name in private is fine, using it when others may hear is not, unless you wish him dead – our informant?”

“It wasn’t mentioned, as far as I know.”

“And you can’t ask, Arthur,” Merlin points out. “Mentioning his name will only tell Uther he’s involved.” Not that Gwaine is really in all that much danger right now, Merlin hopes, given how many miles away he should be, and if he comes back (“when,” Lancelot would correct, if he heard Merlin say that, but then Lancelot didn’t see how hurt Gwaine was. All the sweet words, all the promises in the world are not enough to convince Merlin that Gwaine will definitely come back), Uther will probably have forgotten about his involvement.

Arthur nods. “Thank you, Leon.”

“My duty, sire,” Leon replies. They all three ignore the fact that his duty is to the king, not Arthur, and that what he is doing – spilling Uther’s plans so that Arthur can foil them – is tantamount to treason, and very certainly going to mean some sort of punishment when Uther learns what he has done. Unlike Gwaine’s part in the matter, this is not something that can be kept hidden easily, particularly seeing as Merlin suspects the three of them are about to go marching down to the great hall to put an end to this latest kingly folly.

Arthur pulls on a pair of boots, then makes a move towards the door. Before he can unlock it and lead them out, Leon has something else to say. “Sire, I don’t mean to question you unduly, but if you have a plan, it might be nice to be informed of it.”

It is clear from Arthur’s expression just how required this intervention was.

“You don’t have one, do you?” Merlin asks, trying not to smirk; given that a woman’s life is in danger – and saving her may endanger Gwaine – this is not the time to show signs of humour.

It is proof that Arthur has grown as a person that he doesn’t bluster and somehow attempt to pin the blame for his absence of forethought on Merlin. “Not as such, no,” Arthur looks slightly hopelessly between Merlin and Leon, then moves to sit at the table. “If either of you have any suggestions...” he gestures to the other seats at the table.

Merlin looks at Leon as they sit, realising for the first time just how easy he is to have a silent conversation with (despite months of watching Gwaine do so when it came to issues with Lancelot and Arthur, Merlin has never had to attempt it himself). Both of them know perfectly well what Arthur should do, but neither of them particularly wants to be the one to say it. Merlin loses, mostly because Leon is the only one of Arthur’s knights he still feels obliged to defer to. “Arthur, your father...he isn’t the most...stable man around. Gaius suggested it a year and a half ago, when he was ill last time, and I know he’s suggested it since we retook the city. Your father was a strong king, once.” Misguided, Merlin adds in his head, but certainly strong.

He takes a deep breath, knowing that from Arthur’s frown that concluding this speech is not sensible, but then he’s always placed necessity above good sense, and this needs to be said. “He is no longer fit to rule, Arthur. You need to take his place.”

“I will tell you what I have told Gaius, Merlin,” Arthur says, and if Merlin had thought his expression before was cold, this one is practically glacial. “I will not usurp my father. I’m not my sister.”

“No one would you think you were,” Merlin answers, after a glance at Leon reveals he is perfectly happy for Merlin to continue with the argument. “There’s just a little bit of a difference between taking the throne to protect your people and taking it because you’re a psychotic bitch.”

“Merlin!”

“No, sire,” Leon cuts in. “Merlin is right. You have a duty to your people.”

“I have a duty to my king.” Merlin finds it easier to breathe now that Arthur’s eyes are no longer on him, and he has nothing but admiration for the way Leon holds up under his gaze, not wavering for a second.

“I was there when your sister took the crown from your father’s head, because of her fear and hatred and his lies. I was there when she killed innocent people because we would not swear fealty to her. I watched them _die_ , because of my loyalty to your father.” It is speeches like this that show why Leon is second only to Arthur in their group. He has the political power that Merlin doesn’t, the knowledge of Uther, Arthur and their kingdom that the others have yet to gain, and while Merlin cannot occasionally find the right words to sway Arthur, he cannot do so with the same emotional distance Leon can, the same air of reason. “Your sister’s hatred cost many lives. Your love can save just as many.”

Unfortunately, Arthur is a deaf to Leon’s cool reason as he was to Merlin’s impassioned arguments. “My father is the king. This matter is _closed_.”

“Arthur, you-”

“It is closed, Merlin!” Arthur stands, smacking both palms on the table, and Merlin jumps. “I will not discuss treason with either of you, nor will I permit you to discuss it amongst yourselves. Is that clear?” He waits, silent and unmoving, face carved from stone, until first Leon and then, eventually, when the true futility of continued argument sinks in, Merlin nods. “Now, do either of you have any _productive_ solutions?”

He sits, dragging a weary hand down his face, and Merlin can tell his tiredness is more than just the early hour. Uther’s madness is wearing them all down, and Arthur has to deal with it more than most. He wonders how many times Arthur has mentally run through the same arguments they have just given him, how long Arthur has known what they are telling him, how much longer it will be before Arthur is able to accept it. Not too long, he hopes, for everyone’s sakes.

They sit in silence for a few very long minutes. Merlin toys with an idea in his mind, one he hates himself for even entertaining, never mind the fact that he is actually about to suggest it. “We tell the truth.”

“We- _Mer_ lin, have you lost your mind?”

He thinks about answering Arthur in the positive, because Gwaine loves him and Merlin is proposing something that could get him killed if they aren’t extremely careful. “Maybe,” he says, “but...”

“Merlin, are you suggesting what you seem to be suggesting?” Leon looks some combination of surprised and deeply confused.

Merlin nods, trying not to let what he is feeling show on his face, though of course he has never been good at that. It is a brutal thing he is doing, to throw Gwaine into the shit without him being around to have a say in the matter, but Merlin doesn’t know what else to say. “If it’s a choice between someone dying and him standing up and taking the blame, I think Gw- he would step forward.”

“Do you?” Arthur asks, and Merlin imagines he hears the words _you would know_ in his tone.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if he was here,” Merlin argues, “Not to him, or to you. But he isn’t here.”

It is only in the pause that follows his words that Merlin notices the expression Arthur is wearing. He had been too busy before, trying to rationalise what he is saying, trying to decide whether this really is what Gwaine would do. Where before Arthur had been looking at him like a stranger, cool and impersonal and more than a little angry, he is now concerned, with a thin undercurrent of suspicion, although Merlin doesn’t think it’s directed at him.

“Would you wait outside for a few minutes, please, Leon?” Arthur asks, his tone making it perfectly clear that this is not a request. “I need to talk to Merlin.”

Leon agrees, even as Merlin internally begs him not to; he so doesn’t want to hear anything from Arthur that necessitates a private conversation, not now, when it can be about nothing other than Gwaine. However, whilst Leon is a man of many virtues, the ability to read minds is apparently not one of them. He leaves in a swirl of red, the door closing firmly behind him.

The only positive Merlin can see is that at least this time it isn’t locked.

X

“Is there something you need to tell me, Merlin?”

_No_ , Merlin thinks, but stays silent. There are many, many things he could tell Arthur, but none that he needs to, or even that he should, and certainly none that he wants to.

Arthur rolls his eyes, his expression some combination of concern and exasperation, and Merlin is forcefully reminded of the first time they had a stare-down across a table. He’d never seen the sea before that day, and hasn’t really had the time, or the inclination, to go back; near death experiences, either his or Arthur’s, are not really the thing to endear a place to him. “Really, Merlin, you’re choosing to play it like this?”

“Like what, Arthur?” Merlin answers, sounding defensive even to his own ears. “We have bigger problems to deal with, now. A woman’s life is at risk.”

“And you’re willing to risk Gwaine’s to save her.”

“What happened to keeping his name out of it?”

“That is hardly the point here.” Arthur’s face is deadly serious, and deeply concerned. “If he is caught, my father _will_ kill him, and you want me to give him the information that will ensure his death. I do not pretend to understand your relationship, or why it ended, but I need you to answer me very honestly. Is there a reason you want Gwaine dead?”

Merlin is literally speechless. He knows what he just suggested isn’t kind, or remotely fair to Gwaine, but it wasn’t because he wanted him dead. Gwaine is miles away by now, safely out of Uther’s maniacal grasp, and Merlin is just trying to help this unnamed woman who isn’t safe, who is facing death for nothing more than looking scared. Even if she was the one who told Gwaine, she can’t be blamed; Merlin knows from experience just how persuasive Gwaine can be, when he wants, and telling him wasn’t actually a crime, even under Uther’s insane decrees.

“Merlin, I need an answer. If he did something, if he... _hurt_ you, I will send someone after him. He can be dead within a week, if there is a reason for it.”

Merlin laughs. He knows he shouldn’t, and there is more than an edge of hysteria to it, but Arthur is sitting there looking so worried, offering to execute Gwaine if Merlin wants him to. He will, as well, that much is obvious from his face and voice, from the unprecedented levels of concern in his eyes, concern that is rapidly morphing into pure, unadulterated panic. Merlin needs to stop laughing, _now_ , before Arthur takes this as a yes and begins to act however he sees fit, but he can’t. Arthur thinks Gwaine has hurt Merlin, except he doesn’t just mean hurt, he means...something else, and just thinking that word in relation to Gwaine is so very, very ridiculous that Merlin laughs even harder.

Arthur is stood by the door before Merlin registers that he has even moved. “Leon, I need you to fetch Gaius. Now. Send him here immediately, then find Lancelot and have him bring whatever details he has of Gwaine’s location.”

“Arthur,” Merlin manages, between gasping and most definitely hysterical laughter. “Arthur!”

Arthur glances back at him for a second, then back to Leon. “After that, I need you to round up any of the knights you believe can be discrete and very, very silent about something. Not Elyan or Percival. Tell them to wait by the stables for me, I’ll be there shortly.”

“Stop it, Arthur!” Merlin says – shouts, almost –, the readiness with which Arthur is acting as effective as a slap in the face. “Leon, ignore this, he’s overreacting.”

“I am?” Arthur turns to look at Merlin, brow raised, voice shaking just slightly, probably not even enough for anyone less familiar with him to notice.

“Yes, you are,” Merlin answers, soft and serious. “Please, stop this.” He stumbles from the table to stand by Arthur, clutching at his arm as he speaks. “Whatever you think happened, I promise you, you’re wrong. I only suggested it because he’s far enough away to be _safe_.”

Arthur holds his gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment before nodding. “Okay. Leon, you can forget all of that. Merlin, are you sure this is what Gwaine would do if he was here?”

Merlin thinks of Gwaine jumping on a man with a knife to save a total stranger, of him standing between Merlin and Arthur when Merlin’s secret came out, of him offering his heart and soul and body to Merlin and asking nothing in return. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Arthur states, putting his free hand on top of Merlin’s, still closed tight around Arthur’s arm. “Let’s go tell my father the truth.”

X

They don’t, of course. What they tell Uther is the one tiny fact they can safely share, surrounded by a careful mix of half-truths and untruths. Arthur does most of the telling, Leon and Merlin little more than an audience to his deception.

Uther greats Arthur warmly (or what passes for warm when it comes to their king), accepts Leon’s respectful bow with a nod, and completely ignores Merlin (as he does most of the time, the few exceptions being the occasions there is something he requires a trustworthy – Merlin still finds that a little amusing, when applied to himself – servant to do). He then waves an imperious hand at two guards standing at the edge of the room, all without rising from his throne.

The guards come forwards, bringing with them an older woman (not _old_ , just older, and while Merlin recognises her vaguely he’s never put a name to her face), hands tied behind her back.

“Is this the woman who told you of the rationing?” Uther asks, as the guards push her to her knees in front of Arthur.

Merlin watches as Arthur looks from one guard to the other. The first lowers his gaze, respectful with a side of shame, while the second refuses to be daunted; a king’s man first and foremost, following orders regardless of the ethics of doing so. “No,” Arthur replies, not even glancing at the woman.

“Are you certain?” The implication is not that Arthur might not be sure, but that he is lying, though of course his father will not accuse him of that directly, or at least not with so many witnesses present. “One serving-girl looks much like another.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur replies, though Merlin can tell he’s just humouring Uther. “However, it wasn’t a woman who told me, _serving-girl_ or otherwise. It was one of my knights.”

“A week ago, you swore you wouldn’t tell me who your source was.” Uther stands and paces, his expression just a tinge more angry than the situation merits. Other than that, he seems remarkably sound of mind, and Merlin considers it excellent luck that this has not happened on one of the king’s many bad days, and that Leon was one of the knights on duty when Uther made his decision.

“A week ago, I didn’t think you were likely to execute an innocent as a result of my silence.”

“So you choose to turn in the true culprit instead. Give me his name, and he will be dead by noon.” Merlin flinches, even though he knows Gwaine isn’t within that short a distance of the city. Gwaine is safe, and Merlin trusts Arthur will do all he can to keep him that way, otherwise they wouldn’t be doing this.

Merlin will not allow Gwaine to come to harm when it is in his power to prevent it, any more than he will Arthur. Gwaine is his to protect, and not only by his own admission, though of course that is a part of it ( _yours, only and always_ ). So are Arthur, and Lancelot, the other knights, and, to a lesser extent, the whole of Camelot, regardless of who he is protecting them from. Gwaine _must_ not be hurt by this.

“I’m afraid he won’t,” Arthur replies, and Merlin relaxes a little. “The knight in question is no longer within our borders; beyond that, I have no idea where he is.”

“No longer...” Uther begins, getting no father before the facade of sanity slips to reveal the cracks in the mind beneath. “Why is he not _here_?” He shouts. “You knew the penalty for someone telling you.”

Arthur gives a slow, deep nod. “I did. He did not.” Merlin watches his prince take a long breath and feels fear coil deep in his stomach. Up until now, no names have been mentioned, and Gwaine is in no way connected to this, as far as the king is concerned. Merlin wants to tell Arthur to stop, to silence him before he can begin his next sentence, but it is too late; that a knight was involved has already been revealed, and the others are immediately in danger because of this decision, and because they don’t have the good fortune to be out of the city at the moment. He trusts Arthur – his feelings mean he can do nothing else – and Arthur believes Gwaine means something significant to Merlin (which he does, even if Merlin doesn’t love him back). Nothing will happen to Gwaine.

Merlin swallows his fear as best he can, and waits for Arthur to continue.

“Sir Gwaine overheard some gossip one afternoon and passed it on to me. He didn’t know that telling me was against a royal edict, and nor did I, until I asked you about it. When I found out, I banished him.”

That wasn’t part of the plan, as far as Merlin knew, and, oh gods, it sounds so very permanent. It isn’t, when Gwaine and Lancelot have both been banished before and been permitted to return, but the circumstances that brought about their return...Merlin does not want to wait for Morgana to make her next attempt for the throne before Gwaine is allowed back.

It is fortunate that Uther is looking away from his son in disgust as Arthur finishes his speech, because he is looking not at the king but at Merlin, once again concerned, though not as frantic as earlier. He raises an eyebrow in askance, though asking what, Merlin isn’t sure. _Do you trust me_ , maybe, or _should I continue_. Whatever it is, the answer is yes, as it is to most things Arthur asks of him when lives are at stake (except for _stay here_. That is something it’s never right to obey). Merlin nods, holding Arthur’s gaze; Arthur sends a small smile at him, then resumes speaking. “I thought it a more fitting punishment than execution, given Sir Gwaine’s unfortunate lack of awareness of the law, and all that he has risked for the defence of our kingdom, a kingdom to which he was not born.”

Uther sneers. He sneers, he argues ( _ignorance is no excuse_ ), shouts ( _you_ will _tell me where he is_ ), rages ( _I am the king, Arthur. You have_ no _right_ ), threatens Merlin and Leon with days in the stocks and nights in the cells, even goes so far as to threaten to lock up Arthur. Merlin has never felt more proud than he does now, watching Arthur stand firm in the face of all of this, until Uther has no choice but to concede.

They have won, Merlin knows, as the woman is released and spends several minutes thanking the three of them profusely as soon as they have left Uther sulking in his hall. They have won, and no one is dying over this.

“Thank you,” Merlin says to Arthur that evening when he turns down Arthur’s sheets and places an extra blanket at the foot of the bed. “Gwaine is a good man. Thank you for keeping him alive.” He sounds bitter, he’s sure, and less grateful than he should, something Arthur clearly picks up on.

“You understand why I told my father he was banished, don’t you?”

Merlin thinks about saying yes, because he should understand. Arthur would not have said it without a good reason, and given how well Merlin knows Arthur’s mind most of the time, he should know what it is. He doesn’t, though, and he has to; he shakes his head.

“You were right. This was the only way to keep everyone alive. But if my father believed Gwaine had left of his own will, if he thought he had escaped punishment all together, he would have hunted him until he found him. Gwaine would have been dragged back here, dead or alive. My father would have preferred him alive, I’m sure, to allow for a very public execution, but dead would have been acceptable, as long as his body was recognisable, however he chose to display it.” Arthur stops, fixing Merlin with an intense stare. Merlin sniffles slightly, and tries to pretend he isn’t wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry, Merlin. I’ve done all I can for him.”

They have won, but with Gwaine officially banished and forbidden to return, it feels a whole lot like losing.

X

Gwaine is woken by a shifting of weight in the bed beside him. It’s a little perturbing, since he knows he went to be sober and alone after several hours of talking to his mother and Gareth, and he highly doubts any of his family are going to sneak into his room during the night. And then he realises that the shifting is more like a...bouncing. Someone is jumping on his bed.

He opens his eyes just as the jumping stops, and sees a small hand hovering over his face. A chubby finger pokes his cheek, and he moves his gaze from the hand to see that it is attached to an equally small girl, maybe three or four years old, with fluffy blonde hair and brown eyes.

“Hello?” he says, more than a little confused.

“Hello,” she answers, resuming jumping just a little too close to his head, pink dress floating around her like the knights’ cloaks are prone to do if they spin too quickly. “Gwandma told Unca Gawef to wake you up fow bweakfast, but Da said I should instead.”

“Did he now?” Gwaine asks, sitting up and looking at his doorway. Bertram is standing there, leaning against the doorjamb with a broad grin on his face. “Why don’t you tell Grandma that I’ll be there in a minute, and I’ll just have a quick word with your da, okay?”

He lifts Molly – because that has to be who she is, staring at him with the same brown eyes his father had, that he and both of his brothers have – gently, hands huge against her ribs, and places her carefully on the floor. She skips from the room with clumsy, childish delight, and Bertram pushes off from the wall as she passes him, ruffling her hair with visible fondness.

“Sweet kid,” Gwaine says, getting up to rummage for clothing. “Be sweeter if you hadn’t sent her to wake me up.”

Bertram shrugs, throwing the shirt Gwaine wore yesterday evening at him from the dresser he’d left it lying on top of. “She wanted to meet you, as soon as she heard you were here. Gareth has been filling her head with fairy-stories about her heroic uncle.”

“Has he now?” Gwaine pulls the shirt over his head, collects his trousers from the floor and ducks behind his screen to change into them. “Heroic?” Perhaps in Camelot, if one were to be somewhat liberal with the definition of a hero, but never here.

“So he says. The time you saved him from bullies, the time the pair of you found ‘treasure’ in the woods, the day you carried him home when he broke his arm falling out of a tree. Our brother worships you, Gwaine.”

Gwaine emerges in time to see Bertram’s lip curl with contempt. “I never asked him to.” And he never deserved it, he knows that. Gwaine remembers all those stories and more: the guys who decided beating up his brother was retribution when Gwaine started a fight with them; the collection of colourful rocks they dug up and Gwaine swore were worth something, knowing full well they weren’t; the bet he made that Gareth couldn’t climb higher than he could. A hero, Gwaine is not. He loves his brother, yes, but about the only worthwhile thing he has ever done for his family was to leave them.

Bertram shakes his head, opening the door for Gwaine to precede him from the room. “Perhaps you didn’t ask him to, but he does. You would do well to remember that.”

X

Sir Leon stops Lancelot shortly after he has finished his day’s attempt at training Merlin (clearly, the gods gave Merlin magic as compensation for his total ineptitude when it comes to any other means of self-defence and his tendency to run his mouth off at people with short tempers, otherwise Merlin would not have lived long enough to become Prince Arthur’s great protector).

“You’re certainly persistent, Sir Lancelot,” he says, smiling. “A week is more than most could manage.”

“He tries,” Lancelot says, watching Merlin walk after Arthur, shoulders slumped. It is a rather charitable response, really, because Merlin does not try very hard, but then his mind is probably occupied with other things, Lancelot supposes. “Can I help you with something, Sir Leon?”

Sir Leon looks around cautiously before replying. “In a manner of speaking. You’ve heard, I assume, that Gwaine is banished from the realm?” Lancelot nods; he has heard it mentioned, but has never given all that much credence to rumours. However, if Sir Leon is mentioning it to him, it is more likely than not fact, and Lancelot has to wonder how that came about. He expects an explanation, but none is forthcoming. “That morning, I was...witness to the consequences of a conversation between Merlin and Arthur. I don’t know what they spoke about, but Arthur was rather...overwrought when they were done.”

“Overwrought?” Lancelot echoes.

Sir Leon repeats his careful glance around, and Lancelot copies it as it sinks in just how serious this conversation is, or possibly how serious the one they are discussing was. “He demanded your presence, along with anything you could tell him of Gwaine’s whereabouts, then requested that I select a number of the senior knights who are both trustworthy and...not well acquainted with Gwaine. Merlin managed to talk him out of it, but, as I’m sure you understand, I am a little concerned.”

“Prince Arthur wanted...” Lancelot frowns for a second or two, then feels his eyes widen involuntarily when he puts it all together. “You cannot mean that he...has Gwaine done something I do not know about?”

“If he has, the rest of us are equally ignorant. I believe he is well for now, but it would be unfortunate if a similar confusion were to happen again.”

Lancelot can certainly see that, but he is not entirely sure why Leon is telling him this, particularly given how worried he seems to be about the possibility of their words being overheard. “What do you expect me to do that you cannot?”

Sir Leon smiles approvingly. “Nothing difficult, don’t worry. I merely hoped you could talk to Merlin. He hasn’t been himself since he and Gwaine- since Sir Gwaine left, and I thought it more likely that he’d open up to you than he would to the rest of us.”

“I will do what I can,” Lancelot agrees, almost reluctantly; he feels he has done quite enough meddling in Merlin and Gwaine’s private lives. At the same time, he cannot allow a friend’s life to be in danger if he can prevent it, particularly not one he has helped cause so much hurt to. The only question is when and where best to approach Merlin about this (and, later, if he has the time, he will attempt to work out how Merlin can possibly have kept his magic secret for so long and yet be unable to hide a relationship for a few months).

X

“Leave it,” Lancelot says, as Merlin goes to put his mail on. “We are not training today.”

Merlin puts the shirt back on the ground and puts his scarf back on (it’s more than just habit today, though; the weather is bitingly cold, even if the muddiness of the field shows it’s still above freezing). “Why not?” he asks.

“I have told Prince Arthur you should have a day off. We are going for a walk, so I can teach you the basics of tracking.” Merlin nods, wondering _why_ Lancelot has said that. He tries at training, certainly, but he has not exactly improved enough – or at all – over the few days he’s been doing it to merit a break, and Lancelot has to know Merlin knows that. Arthur must know it, as well, even if he hasn’t been supervising him as intently as Lancelot has, and yet he has given Lancelot permission anyway.

Merlin waits until they’re a good way out of the city before asking what this is really about, just in case Lancelot decides to change his mind when he knows Merlin doesn’t believe him. Lance feigns ignorance the first two times Merlin asks, but stops on the third. “Leon thought I should talk to you. He is concerned.”

“Leon thought you should talk to me about what?” Merlin asks, and can tell Lancelot is trying to work out whether or not he’s just pretending not to know (he isn’t).

“He was not sure. He thought I would be able to do better than he could, though.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, then frowns. “So you’re taking me for a walk to the woods so that you can talk to me, because Leon said you should, and you have no idea what this is about?” As far as productive conversations go, Merlin can see this one heading nowhere.

“Yes. He thought you would know; a conversation you had with Arthur the day he claimed to have banished Gwaine.” Merlin flinches, because he knows exactly what this is about now, and is really just glad that Leon had the good sense to realise he wasn’t going to get anywhere by asking Merlin about this himself. Just in case it isn’t clear yet, Lancelot continues. “A conversation that ended with Leon being asked to get Gwaine’s location from me and assemble a group of knights who do not know Gwaine too well and are capable of keeping quiet.”

Merlin knows what Lancelot is implying, but can’t decide if the implication is one Lancelot worked out himself, or if Leon was so blunt as to state it directly (though he has no doubts about whether Leon worked it out). “Ah.”

Lancelot holds Merlin’s gaze, his face a combination of anger and disappointment. “Yes, Merlin, _ah_. What, exactly, did you say to Arthur that meant he thought he should have Gwaine killed? And do not even _think_ about lying to me.”

“I...” Merlin begins, but doesn’t know how to continue. How is he supposed to tell Lancelot what Arthur thought, and that Merlin has done almost nothing to disabuse him of the notion, when Lance already thinks so little of him? Merlin has spent months treating Gwaine like shit, and Lancelot knows it; if he tells Lance what has happened, Merlin truly thinks Lancelot will hate him.

“You...?” Lancelot heads off the main track towards a pile of flat rocks. “You will sit, Merlin, and you will tell me what happened.” Merlin hesitates for a second, until Lancelot, so sharply that Merlin doesn’t argue, adds, “Now!”

“Uther had a suspect,” Merlin says, sitting obediently on the cold – though, thankfully, dry – rocks. “He was planning to have her executed. The only way to save her we could think of-” Merlin stops, and corrects himself, because he will feel just as terrible if he allows Lancelot to believe he is slightly less awful than he actually is as he will when Lancelot knows everything. “The only way _I_ could think of was for us to tell him it was Gwaine.”

“You...Merlin, why would you do that?” Lancelot skips the confusion that Arthur and Leon displayed at Merlin’s suggestion, moving straight to being appalled. Merlin really cannot blame him.

“Gwaine is miles away, he wouldn’t be in any danger. Uther wasn’t going to hunt him down personally, and Arthur would have been able to persuade anyone sent after him to say that he’d escaped. Gwaine would have been _safe_ , and no one would have had to die.” He stops a second time, looking back at the city, and feels the weight of Lancelot’s disapproval on him. “Arthur...misunderstood.”

Lancelot sighs, loudly. “Each time you stop talking, you drag this conversation out even more, Merlin. How did Arthur misunderstand?”

Merlin shuffles uncomfortably, counting windows in the castle as he tells Lancelot what happened, trying to keep his mind away from what he is saying. _One, two, three_ , “Arthur thought I suggested it as some sort of subtle way of getting Gwaine killed.” _Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,_ then Arthur’s windows, _eighteen, nineteen, twenty_. “Arthur thought Gwaine...that he...” _thirty-five, thirty-six_ – he’s on the next floor down, now, nearing the knights’ rooms. Gwaine’s is on the other side of the castle, but Lancelot’s is number forty, Merlin thinks, and counting windows is not anywhere near enough to distract him from his words or the fact that he thinks he is about to throw up. “Arthur though I wasn’t willing.”

Lancelot doesn’t say anything until Merlin hits window number ninety-eight, on the last row before they’re obscured by the wall and other buildings. “And you told him just how wrong he was, I hope.”

“I told him he was wrong,” Merlin hedges, knowing it isn’t what Lancelot wants to hear.

Lance places a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, not comfortingly at all but to yank Merlin around to face him. “I understand that you might not want to tell Arthur everything, but that you are so desperate to keep your secrets that you will allow Arthur to draw conclusions like that disgusts me. What happened to you, Merlin?”

Merlin can’t maintain eye-contact, can’t let Lancelot see how much that hurts, even as the part of him that wallows in guilt is rejoicing that he is finally getting what he deserves. “I can’t tell him.”

“That is what Gwaine said, when we argued about him telling you he loved you.” Lancelot stands, taking a large step away from the rocks, like even being close to Merlin is too much for him. “Do you want to know what I said to him, when I gave him the ultimatum you overheard? Do you want to know, Merlin?”

Merlin shakes his head. There is little he wants to know less, because if he hears the words Lancelot spoke in his defence he will break, and he doesn’t think anyone, not Lance or Arthur or Gwaine will be able to fix him.

“Why can’t you tell Arthur? Why can’t you tell him that you took everything Gwaine could give you and then broke his heart?”

Merlin doesn’t stand, doesn’t move, barely even breathes as Lancelot stands shouting at him. “I can’t tell him,” he replies, his voice quiet but unfaltering, “Because he will look at me like you do.”

Lancelot nods, expression scornful and disappointed and everything else Merlin knew it would be. “Yes, I imagine he will. Do not follow me back to the castle, Merlin.” His voice softens slightly from the unforgiving, unyielding thing it had been before, though his last words are no kindness. “I told Gwaine you deserved better than him, and I will regret it until I die.”

X

Lancelot does not feel guilty for what he said to Merlin. He feels guilty for many things, whether or not he should; kissing Guinevere, the part he played in ending Gwaine’s love-life, and always, always, always, there is a pit of shame in his stomach that he ran and hid when his home was attacked, that he did nothing but listen to the clash of steel and the screams of his family and friends. That guilt destroyed him as a child, and has been at the centre of his being since then, his motivation and his penance.

Lancelot is no stranger to remorse, carrying it with him on his shoulders like Atlas carries the world. Guilt is Lancelot’s world, his burden and his being, but he refuses to feel it now, as the first raindrop hits his nose, followed quickly by a second and a third and a three-hundredth, and his brisk walk back to the castle becomes an all out run.

“How did the tracking lesson go?” Elyan asks, when Lancelot joins them all for lunch, hair still slightly damp despite his best efforts to dry it.

“As well as could be expected,” he replies, only half lying. Perhaps he didn’t spend the morning teaching Merlin how to track, but the conversation went much the way he had thought it would. The others laugh and resume eating. No one asks where Merlin is, and he does not volunteer the information; when Sir Leon asked him to talk to Merlin, leaving him outside in the rain after shouting at him was probably not what he had in mind.

He still does not feel guilty, though he resolves to make sure Merlin joins them from every meal, as soon as he thinks he will be able to stand Merlin’s presence again.

Lancelot intends to go to the library after eating, as he does most days, but Sir Leon catches him on the way there. “Sir Lancelot, how was your talk with Merlin?”

“Informative. You can stop worrying about him, Sir Leon. I assure you, Merlin is more than capable of looking out for himself.”

Leon looks at him steadily for a moment, probably trying to work out the reason for his anger. “If you’re certain. Thank you. On your way, Lancelot.”

X

“Where do you think you’re going, Gwaine?”

Gwaine stops in his tiptoeing down the hall and turns to see Gareth glaring at him from the entrance to his bedroom. “Out.”

“Out where?”

“I’ve been home for a week, ‘Reth,” Gwaine answers, and resumes walking, trying to keep his voice low. “A week, and Bertie is still alive. I’m getting a drink.”

Gareth’s glare becomes a grin, and he steps forwards, letting his door close softly behind him. “Excellent. I’ll come with you.”

X

“Lancelot?” Gaius asks softly, startling him from his thoughts.

“Hmm?” He closes the book on the table in front of him, a dry text about the suppression of magical abilities. He volunteered to help Gaius research side effects of the potion Merlin is taking, before Merlin made it obvious that he was not worth the effort of worrying about (and he does _not_ feel bad about thinking that, either).

Gaius sits in the seat next to him and peers tiredly at the cover of the book. “Have you found anything new?”

Lancelot shakes his head. “Not anything important. I suppose that was not why you came down here, though.” Only twice has Lancelot found information that might be relevant, and both times he has taken it straight to Gaius, to spare him the walk.

“No, I was looking for Merlin.”

“I have not seen him since this morning.” There is not a squelching heaviness in his insides as he remembers peering out through his window in the driving rain as he changed into dry clothes before lunch, only just able to make out a small brown blur a little way from the path. “Is there a problem?”

“Problem? No. No, I was just...actually, there is. Merlin didn’t appear this afternoon to take his potion.” Lancelot has to look hard to see the worry on Gaius’ face, but it is there, in the set of his shoulders, the deepening tightness around his mouth, the eyebrow that sits a little higher than it usually does. “I didn’t want to tell Prince Arthur, you know he wouldn’t be too happy.”

“What makes you think I will not tell him?”

Gaius does not say anything in reply; a look is answer enough. Gaius does not believe Lancelot will report on Merlin’s rule-breaking, because he is too noble, too loyal. If Lancelot did not tell anyone Merlin has magic years ago, when he first found out, it follows logically that he will not do anything that will cause Merlin trouble now. “No, okay then,” he says; he would like to, perhaps, even if he was opposed to the potion as a punishment initially, but while he believes Merlin should face some kind of penalty for his actions since then, Lancelot cannot be the one to make sure he faces it. “What do you intend to do?”

“To begin with, we need to find him. After that...it depends on why he was missing. As far as I can tell, you were the last person to see him.”

Lancelot swallows and stands, stomach twisting when he sees how low the candles around his table have burnt down since he got here. He never thought that Merlin would sit outside for so long, in the rain and the wind, entirely without shelter. The guilt he has been trying to ignore makes itself known like a fist in the gut. “I know where he is. Have blankets ready, and a fire. I will bring him straight to his room.”

X

“And here I thought you’d stopped drinking, brother.” Gareth laughs as Gwaine drains his fresh tankard in a matter of seconds.

Gwaine claps him on the back and wonders whether it’s too soon to get another. “Why’d I want to do that?” Love, maybe; it had certainly seemed like a good idea to sober up some when he was with Merlin, labouring under the illusion that his life was worth more than a few stupid bar brawls.

“Why indeed?” Gareth leans slightly closer and pitches his voice lower. “Decided who you’re leaving with, yet?”

The words hit Gwaine like a snowdrift he fell in once, years ago, and are equally effective at ridding him of his drunken almost-cheer. “What?” he asks, and while he’d thought talking about his sex-life with Lancelot was unpleasant, this is something else entirely. His mother knew what he got up to before he left, and Bertram makes his distaste obvious at every opportunity, but Gareth was barely ten when Gwaine buggered off. It might be years since then, far too many of them, but...in his mind, Gareth is still his baby brother, even if he isn’t.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Gwaine,” Gareth answers, paralleling Gwaine’s thoughts. “I know why you never used to come home half the week. Girl in the corner has been watching you for a bit. Name’s Maggie, I think you hit her brother once.” One of the many benefits (detriments) of living in a town this small; if his family doesn’t know someone, they know someone who does.

Gwaine doesn’t even bother to look at the girl. Maybe in a few more weeks, but not now, so soon after Merlin and the disgust Gwaine felt at a stranger’s skin against his own. “Some other night, maybe. You’ll have to do better than that to get rid of me.”

X

“Gods be good, Merlin, you are an idiot.” Lancelot says, planting the spiked end of his torch in the ground and unfastening his cloak. The wind cuts through him immediately, and he can only imagine how cold Merlin must be, after hours of sitting unmoving in the rain. Merlin does not move now, does not lift his gaze from his feet until Lancelot kneels in front of him and physically tilts his chin back in order to fasten the laces of his cloak around Merlin’s neck.

His eyes are hollow and defeated, cheeks flushed pink with fever, a startling contrast to the rest of his skin. Lancelot runs a thumb under his eyes, brushing away the tears that cling to his lower lashes. “Idiot,” he repeats, this time directing it at himself as well, and it would take a far more stubborn man than Lancelot to stay angry at Merlin, when everyone but Merlin himself can see that he is as heartbroken by this as Gwaine is. He tugs Merlin to his feet, pulling the cloak over his shoulders to cover him better. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“Why, Lancelot?” Lancelot doesn’t know what question Merlin is asking, when there are so many _why_ s he could be wondering about. He chooses to answer the simplest of them all, and the only one he definitely knows the answer to; the question of his own motives.

“Because you are still my friend, Merlin.”

X

The moon is high in the sky, almost full, when they begin their walk to his house. Most fortunate, Gwaine thinks, because he didn’t think to bring a torch with him, and he’s not confident of his way back up the hill in full dark. The grass crunches under their feet as they leave the cobbled streets of the town, leaning on one another’s shoulders, Gareth hiccupping slightly between verses of several different bawdy drinking songs that are not meant to be sung interchangeably but apparently are. Gwaine has mostly recovered from his Merlin related melancholy following Gareth’s question earlier, at least enough to laugh when his younger brother gets the lyrics wrong.

“Tell us a story while we walk?” Gareth suggests, stumbling over a rock and tightening his grip on Gwaine to keep himself from falling. “Used to be, you couldn’t be back a day before rec-reco-telling a tale. This time, nothing.”

Gwaine blinks and halts while Gareth continues walking, which would be less of a problem if they hadn’t been supporting one another. As it is, it turns into Gwaine trying to stand still while Gareth ends up facing in the opposite direction with his feet tangled with one another (an achievement, Gwaine thinks, particularly seeing as neither of them fall as a result of it).

“Gwaine? Problem?” Gareth takes a step back, turns so he is pointing both feet uphill again and tugs Gwaine’s arm until he resumes movement. “Now, story?”

Gwaine thinks of the stories he could tell, so, so many of them. Bar fights and drinking, a plenitude of guys and girls in his bed, the odd encounter with actual danger. And then Merlin, Camelot, love, loyalty, _home_. Gwaine has stories to tell, plenty of them, but the latter sort _hurt_ and the former are almost certainly what Bertram was warning him about earlier in the week. “Sorry, ‘Reth. Nothing new to tell this time.”

“It’s been nearly five years since we last saw you, Gwaine. You can’t possibly have done nothing in all that time.”

Gwaine shrugs, even though it’s nearly dark and Gareth is looking in the wrong direction anyway. “I can and I have. Really am sorry, mate.”

“Hmph,” Gareth answers, clearly sceptical, but far too drunk (so much more of a lightweight than Gwaine, but doing better than Merlin did when he drank with Gwaine and the knights) to argue more. “That case, you’ll just have to sing as well.”

He does, reluctantly, because it is far easier than telling either a story or the story of why he cannot (will not) tell a story.

X

Merlin...feels like shit. His head is foggy, his nose is running and, thanks to spending the night in a bed far less comfortable than those he’s slept in recently, his back is aching. He’s not sure, but he thinks he has a temperature, too. Gaius frowns when Merlin exits his bedroom and tells him to go back to bed, this instant, and not to even think of getting up again until he’s recovered.

“I’m fine,” Merlin lies, sneezes, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “And even if I’m not,” he adds, when Gaius’ frown deepens (possibly just from disgust), “I need to go anyway.” He doesn’t elaborate, just drinks the now recognisable vial that is his potion and ducks around Gaius to make his way to the training field, having slept through breakfast.

He arrives not a moment too soon – possibly more than a few moments too late – and finds Lancelot and Arthur standing in a corner while the king’s knights bash at each other obediently and Arthur’s knights watch the pair of them from a sensible – and shrinking – distance.

“What’s going on?” Merlin asks, ignoring their looks of horror at his appearance. He isn’t fine, and he knows it, but Merlin has to show Lancelot he isn’t quite as terrible as he’s been acting lately. Nothing he does will make him worthy of all that Gwaine has sacrificed for him, but he will not let Lancelot’s faith in him prove itself to be misplaced.

Leon answers, largely because Percival rarely answers questions not specifically directed at him and Elyan is staring intently at the way Lancelot is very close to cowering. “I’m not sure,” he says, glancing at Merlin briefly then back to Arthur and Lancelot. “Prince Arthur stalked out of the castle and demanded to speak to Sir Lancelot. He was not happy.”

“Oh,” Merlin answers, about to muse aloud what the dispute might be over. Then he hears his name, just barely (given the distance they are away from Arthur, who is speaking, he must be shouting pretty loudly), and realises how quickly he needs to be over there interrupting them.

“What”– sneeze –”is going on here? You know they’re watching you, don’t you?” He nods at the others, who make a sudden attempt to look busy and fail. “I take it you have a good reason for this show.” His attempt at sounding disapproving is ruined somewhat by yet another sneeze following his words.

“That,” Arthur answers him, sounding far more disapproving than Merlin did, and turns back to Lancelot. “I grant you permission to take Merlin away from the city on some phony excuse, and you abandon him in the woods in the rain. Not only is he missing for all of yesterday, he’s now ill. I hope you have a good explanation for this.”

Lancelot, against all reason, actually looks ashamed, and is about to apologise when Merlin stops him. “Don’t. You know that wasn’t your fault.” Merlin places himself firmly between the two of them, back to Lancelot, before addressing his next words to Arthur. “Back off, please. Lancelot hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Lancelot stranded you alone, despite knowing how poor a sense of direction you have. In the rain.”

“Lancelot left me within sight of the road, it wasn’t raining, and it was my choice to stay there.”

“Lancelot-”

“Is standing right here,” Lance cuts in, seemingly heedless of the sneer with which Arthur said his name. Merlin turns slightly to look at him, still trying his best to form a solid barricade. “Much as I appreciate you defending me, Merlin, it is highly unnecessary.”

Merlin sniffs, mostly from his cold but somewhat from disbelief. “ _Someone_ needs to defend you,” he argues. “You certainly won’t.”

“The same could be said of you a few weeks ago, Merlin. The risk here is somewhat lower, so I suggest you let me deal with this and go get the rest you so clearly require.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin protests, sounding even less convincing than when he told Gaius the same thing. “You all worry too much.” Both of them just look at him, neither making the effort to argue; the shadows under Merlin’s eyes and the fact that the vast majority of his consonants are indistinguishable from one another is argument enough. “Okay, I’m not fine. But if I wasn’t here, Arthur would be yelling and you’d just be standing here accepting it, Lancelot.”

Again, neither of them protest, and Arthur carefully avoids looking Merlin in the eye. He doesn’t go quite so far as to apologise, but then apologies have never been Arthur’s strong point. Instead, he returns to their previous topic of conversation. “So, if you knew your way back to the city, as you claim, why did you _choose_ to spend the afternoon sitting in the rain, _Mer_ lin?”

“I had to think,” Merlin replies, pretending not to know how ridiculous that sounds. _Is there not anywhere indoors you could think?_ he can almost hear Arthur think, while Lancelot’s face is, once again, the portrait of unnecessary guilt ( _do not follow me back to the castle, Merlin_ ). Maybe it was Lancelot’s words that made him sit there at first, but Merlin isn’t stupid enough to stay out in the rain shivering because of him. Lancelot has nothing to blame himself for; Merlin had to stay for himself, to get control of the thing twisting his mind into a mess of fear and self-loathing, so that he can somehow work up the guts to tell Arthur as much of the truth as he needs to know.

“How did that go?” Arthur smirks, after a moment or two of Merlin not saying anything further.

Merlin shakes his head and answers, “Not too bad,” aware of the contradiction between his words and his actions. Maybe, if he takes deep breath and pretends really hard that it won’t change how Arthur thinks of him, he might actually be able to let Arthur know how much of a bastard he’s been to Gwaine. He has to. If he ever wants Gwaine to be able to safely return to the city, Merlin has to take the chance that Arthur will hate him. “I know what I have to do, at least,” he tells them, not mentioning that he has no idea when he is going to do it. Given that the last time he brought Gwaine into a conversation with Arthur, things didn’t end too well, he isn’t particularly sure how to go about it this time. “You should probably return to the others, Arthur. They’re looking restless.”

Arthur’s eyes flick over to Leon, Elyan and Percival for a moment. “The others have their orders, and they are the only ones who will be harmed by their refusal to obey them. I am currently more concerned by the fact that you find yourself hurt so much of the time and yet consistently insist that the ones upsetting you are not to blame.” He steps around Merlin so that he is staring down Lance. “I ask you again, Sir Lancelot, what you think you think you were doing leaving Merlin as you did.”

“I told you, Arthur, Lancelot didn’t do anything wrong.” Merlin moves so that he is once again between his prince and one of his oldest friends, creating as much of an obstacle to Arthur’s glaring as his beanpole frame will allow.

Arthur moves in turn, revolving around Merlin so he can confront Lancelot, leaving Merlin feeling a little like the earth, and Arthur the sun spinning around him, and he wonders just how ridiculous this must look to the others. “I asked Lancelot, not you. _Explain_.”

“I-”

“ _Don’t_ , Lance. You don’t have to explain, and you certainly don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Merlin smiles, a little shakily, at Lancelot, hoping to convey just how much he doesn’t blame him. “I need to talk to Arthur. Will you go distract the others, please, seeing as they’re probably almost close enough to hear us now.” Lancelot goes, willingly and rapidly, leaving Merlin trying to muster his courage and Arthur gaping at him.

“You cannot just order my knights around, Merlin.”

“I didn’t, I asked. You might want to try it some time.” Merlin shakes his head. “That said, will you please stop accusing my friends of harming me?”

“Your friends?” Arthur scoffs and steps uncomfortably close. Merlin doesn’t think he intends it to be a threatening gesture, but it feels like one anyway. “Lancelot abandoned you to get sick and, in case you haven’t noticed, Gwaine has fled the city. Let me commend you on your excellent choice of friends.”

“No! No, Arthur, please.” Merlin draws himself up as tall as he can, bringing attention to the fact that he’s just a little taller than Arthur, something he usually tries not to do. Right now, though, he needs it, and the little bit of extra courage it affords him. This is it. His and Arthur’s friendship has survived all the shit thrown at them, monsters and Morgana and even learning of Merlin’s magic, only for Merlin to risk it now. Gwaine deserves better, and even if it is too late for him to make amends for how he treated him, it is not too late for Merlin to make sure Arthur has the correct opinion of Gwaine. “He didn’t flee the city. I broke up with him.”

Arthur laughs at him, sounding genuinely amused. “Come on, _Mer_ lin. You’ve told some ridiculous tales since I’ve know you, but that is truly funny. I’ve seen how you’ve been the last fortnight; you have no need to lie to protect him.”

“I’m not! Since you banished him, I hardly have to, do I?” That isn’t what Merlin intended to say. This is a time for confessing his own guilt and clearing Gwaine’s name, not accusing Arthur of things. Even this thing, that causes him physical pain each time he thinks of it, has no place in this discussion.

“You know I’m sorry for that, Merlin, and you can’t believe that’s how things are going to stay. If you want him to come back, he can be summoned. By the time he gets here, my father will have forgotten he’s gone.”

“I don’t want him to come back,” Merlin says. “I mean, I do, of course I do, but you can’t ask him to.” He can imagine it happening, the knights turning up on Gwaine’s doorstep and announcing that Merlin wants him to come back to Camelot, can see Gwaine packing his bags and riding for the city, giving up the chance to find someone who is able to love him without Merlin forever on his mind. “Arthur, you mustn’t. If he wants to come back, I want him to be able to, but you _can’t_ make him.”

Arthur stares at him. “Can’t I?” he drawls, clearly expecting Merlin to concede, but he won’t.

“No, you can’t.” Merlin lowers his voice from his almost-shout when he sees Lancelot turn from his attempts to get the others to stop gawping and frown at him. “Please. I hurt him enough when I ended things with him. I will not have him hurt more on my account.”

“And what about how much you are hurting?”

“Me?” Merlin laughs without humour. Once, he would have given anything for Arthur to show this much concern for his feelings, but not today. Today it is only infuriating, when Merlin knows he should be concerned at all. “I deserve this.” Arthur doesn’t speak this time, instead just waiting for Merlin to explain, though his expression is clearly sceptical.

“I deserve it,” Merlin repeats, “After how I treated him. Gwaine loves me.” It is ridiculous and odd and nowhere near as awful as he thought it would be to tell Arthur this, whatever that may mean. “He knew I didn’t love him, that I love someone else, but I didn’t know that he...that was what Lancelot told me, the day I nearly killed him. Gwaine was always on my side, you can’t have missed that, and I was a _bastard_ to him. I didn’t mean to be, but I was.”

“Tell me, _Mer_ lin, if you don’t love him, why are you so sad now?”

“Because,” Merlin answers. “Because I depended on him. Because he offered me everything, and all I did was hurt him. Because I would only have continued hurting him. It’s better this way. He can be happy.”

Arthur laughs, and it is one of the saddest things Merlin has ever heard from him. “Merlin,” he says, and in his voice are all the times he has called Merlin a fool, an idiot, said that Merlin could be wise and negated it with the very same breath. It is more than that, as well; this has something deeper to it, something sorrowful that all his other joking insults have not. “Do you really think that either of you will be happier this way?” He sighs, and for all it is weary and worried, nothing Arthur is exhibiting is even close to the anger and disdain Merlin had expected. Maybe that means Arthur hasn’t understood properly, or that Merlin has done a piss-poor job of explaining, but either way Arthur’s pity hurts almost as much. “Go back to bed, Merlin. You’re too ill to work. I don’t expect to see you again until you’re well.”

Merlin wants to stay, to explain more, or maybe just better, but perhaps, for today, he’s done enough. Perhaps this is sufficient honesty, for the moment. Perhaps he can sleep now.

Merlin sneezes, loudly, and returns to his own room.

X

That night, the dreams start.

The first one feels like a reward, like by telling Arthur he has done right by Gwaine and this is what Merlin gets because of it. The dreams aren’t about sex, or most of them aren’t, anyway. They’re about comfort, mostly, in the same way he and Gwaine were, and Merlin wakes up feeling warm for the first time since the first night he slept alone. He wakes up imagining he can still feel Gwaine’s arms around him, can still smell his skin.

The first one feels like a reward, like there is hope, somehow, for Gwaine returning and still loving him.

And after that, when Merlin’s fever burns away enough for him to remember that he shouldn’t want that, that he is supposed to hope for Gwaine to fall in love with someone else, they feel like crimes. They are still beautiful, full of the same affection Gwaine offered him freely and willingly, and Merlin sleeps through each and every night. The dreams leave him feeling content when asleep, and like a sinner when awake.

He wakes with ice in his stomach each morning, even when he finds himself achingly hard from dreams of things far less innocent than hugs and gentle words. It is as horrible a thing he does in dreaming of Gwaine as it would be if it was the real man he sought comfort from.

And yet, for all his guilt at his continued dependence on Gwaine, Merlin still cannot find it in himself to wish the dreams would stop.

X

Merlin doesn’t notice the man observing them at training until Lancelot points him out.

He is sleeping better, certainly, but he is working harder than ever without his magic to help him, and feeling better about it than he could ever have expected (how ridiculous, that the absence of something he has lived with his whole life should be easier to accept than the absence of something he has known only for a few months). He wakes before dawn each day to begin the list of chores he can do without disturbing Arthur, and is still awake well into the night finishing them, given that much of his morning is fully occupied. His belt is buckled two holes tighter than it used to be, but then everyone is tightening their belts a little right now, and it’s not like Merlin is missing that many meals. There are days, a few of them, when Lancelot has to drag him along with him to the mess hall, when Merlin has had a particularly difficult night (because sometimes they aren’t just pictures his mind makes up for him, but actual memories, and those make him feel more of a villain than all the others put together) and the last thing he wants to do is eat, but mostly he joins the knights of his own free will. He isn’t happy, not by a long shot, but he is surviving, and managing not to destroy any more lives or friendships.

“Do you know who that is?” Lancelot asks, when he and Merlin pause for a moment, pointing at the man – a lean, redheaded bloke, a little shorter than Merlin, probably – leaning against the fence surrounding the training paddock.

Merlin shrugs, frowning at the man and wondering why Lancelot is asking. Plenty of people stop by to watch the knights train, and this one does not look a whole lot different to any of the others. “Don’t think so. Why?”

“He has been watching us all for the last couple of days.” Lancelot smiles with a fondness he probably couldn’t have mustered a month ago. “Had you really not noticed, Merlin?”

Merlin shakes his head. “It takes most of my attention to stop you taking my head off,” he says, and it is true. He’s improving, so very slowly, and the little part of his mind that isn’t focused on training is usually too busy wondering about what Gwaine is doing to notice what is happening around them. “Do you think it’s important?”

“I will mention it to Prince Arthur,” Lancelot replies, which manages to entirely avoid Merlin’s question and imply that the answer is yes anyway. “That is enough of a break, I think,” he says, and Merlin knows better than to argue.

X

Gareth proves impressively insistent when it comes to hearing about Gwaine’s (mis)adventures. Not only does he ask each evening as they fumble their way back to their house, drunk but alone, always alone, but he takes to springing the question on him at random times: at breakfast; as they spread the manure from the stables around their mother’s rose bushes, now pruned down to almost nothing; when Gwaine is scrubbing the dishes from dinner in a bowl of scorching water on the kitchen table (two maids, now, and their mother still demands they do the washing up three meals a week each). Gwaine finds saying no to him easy, given that his brother’s powers of persuasion are pretty poor, and is pretty sure that if he continues refusing for long enough, Gareth will eventually give up. What he isn’t prepared for is his brother’s resourcefulness, or quite how much he has come to love his niece.

Gwaine has never much cared for children, and has certainly never intended to have any of his own (which makes his lifestyle more than a little irresponsible, really, but he’d expect any woman as easy as those he tends to go with to be taking herbs to prevent pregnancy). He finds them whiny, noisy creatures at the best of times, and jumping on his bed in the wee hours of the morning is _not_ the best of times; Molly wakes him most days with great delight, likely at Bertram’s encouragement. To his astonishment, Gwaine doesn’t mind too much. As he said his first morning at home, Molly is a sweet kid, quiet and remarkably polite for her age, fond of hugging anyone and everyone whenever she wants to. It startled him the first time her pudgy arms wrapped around his legs, when she admired his horse in the stables and he asked her if she wanted a ride, and it took a stern look from Rebekah before he was able to respond. Since then, he’s got a little more used to it, and the childish, innocent trust she offers him is more precious than he could have expected.

Still, the evening she scrambles up into his lap as he is sitting by the fire in the living room with his mother surprises him just a little. “Stowy,” she says, wriggling uncomfortably, planting an elbow in his stomach and wrapping a hand around a clump of his hair when she nearly falls. Gwaine winces, and instinctively puts an arm around her waist to stabilise her.

“Molly,” his mother cuts in, before Gwaine can ask what she wants. “That’s not how we ask for something, is it?”

“Sowwy, Gwandma,” Molly replies, then twists to look at Gwaine again. “Please will you tell me a stowy, Unca Gwaine?”

He runs his free hand over her hair as he thinks how to answer. He doesn’t want to tell her no, not really, because it will only upset her, sparking another fight between him and Bertram. At the same time, he lacks the imagination to make something up from nothing (though creative embellishment is a thing he really rather excels at), and he can pretty much smell Gareth’s part in this.

Then again, if one brother can land him in this, he can use the other to dig him out. “I will, love,” he tells her, grinning. “Just check with your Da that it’s okay first.” He deposits her gently on the ground, pats her on the head, and waits until she has tripped from the room before looking at his mother.

She smiles fondly at him from her seat, the same way she used to when he was young and she knew of some minor misdeed he had committed. “I won’t pry about where you’ve been that you don’t want to tell us about, or what you’ve done, Gwaine. Silence can be a heavy burden to bear alone, though. Just know I’ll listen, if ever you wish to share it.”

“I’ll remember that,” he chuckles, pretending her words have not just torn open the hole where his heart is meant to be. It’d be easy to sit at her feet and confess to his sins as he did in years gone by, spilling stories of fighting unwinnable battles, drinking his way into oblivion and Merlin, Merlin, always Merlin. It would be easy, and it would kill him. “Now, I want to go hear Bertie try to explain why I’m not going to be the main part of story time.”

He tracks Molly by way of the squabbling he can hear as soon as he opens the living room door, locating her and Gareth standing outside the kitchen. “Where’d you come from?” Gwaine asks him, grinning triumphantly when Bertram – inside the kitchen – exclaims “No!” slightly louder than necessary.

“Just came to see what the argument was about,” Gareth lies, frowning in annoyance. “I should have known it was your fault.”

“I’m not the one resorting to persuading a four year old to get what I want. That was low, little brother.” Gwaine waits until Gareth’s frown steadily melts into something resembling guilt, confirming his suspicion, then kneels to look Molly in the face. “Sorry, love. Looks like I’m not allowed to tell you a story.”

In response, Molly screws her face up, eyes closed tightly, opens her mouth and wails.

Loudly.

“Oh shi-ps,” Gwaine mutters, changing course as he thinks of Bertram’s face the last time he let slip a swear word in Molly’s presence. “Come on, Molly, don’t cry. Your Ma and Da will kill me, please.” He picks her up in the hope that it will help somehow, and it does; she wraps her arms uncomfortably tight around his neck and presses her face into his chest, muffling her cries a little.

Gwaine looks at Gareth in a horrified request for help, patting Molly gently on the back. Gareth grins, then stop abruptly when the door behind Gwaine creaks open.

“What,” Rebekah demands, and Gwaine literally quakes in his boots, “Have you done to my daughter?”

“Nothing,” Gwaine states, trying to work out how a woman as dainty as his sister-in-law can look just as threatening when brandishing a wooden spoon as Percival did that one time Arthur decided to see how proficient he was with a battleaxe (as it turned out, not very, hence it only being the once, and the event is so burnt into everyone’s minds that it’s unlikely to _ever_ happen again). “I just said it didn’t look like I’d be telling her a story.”

Rebekah’s glare softens into a smile and she lowers the spoon a little, while Bertram – who Gwaine has only just noticed standing behind her, and doesn’t know whether he should be proud or ashamed of his ability to focus on the most immediate threat to the point where he excludes all others – frowns intently. “Is that all?” she asks, shaking her head. “Honestly, Molly. You can stop crying. Of course your uncle can tell you a story.”

Molly’s shrieking stops remarkably quickly, and Gwaine realises how damp his shirt _isn’t_. He should be irritated at being manipulated so easily, and by someone so young, but all he is is impressed.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Bertram tells the room as a whole, though Gwaine’s sudden flash of hope proves to be futile when no one bothers to respond. They troop back to the living room, Gwaine still carrying Molly and trying to think what he is going to share with them all, since he definitely has to share something. It would be one thing if it was just Gareth, but with Molly around...Gwaine doesn’t tend to get involved in all that many child-friendly situations, so on top of his need to find something that won’t destroy him emotionally to tell, he has to find something that won’t cause Bertram to destroy him physically as well.

He sits back in his chair, settling Molly carefully in his lap (because he’s fine with her elbow hitting his stomach but there are things down there he’d prefer to remain undamaged, on the off chance that he’ll eventually feel mentally capable of more action than his own hands can provide). Gareth takes another chair, and Bertram offers the final one to Rebekah then sits at her feet. Molly and Gareth peer at Gwaine expectantly, and his mother folds her sewing to give him her undivided attention. “What sort of story do you want?” he asks, not expecting to get three answers at one.

“A true one,” says Gareth, smiling broadly at getting his way.

“One with a princess,” Molly states excitedly, “And it has to end happily.”

“Something _appropriate_ ,” Bertram drawls, looking as unhappy about this as Gwaine is.

“Right,” Gwaine tells them, nodding, then pauses to think. The closest thing he knows to a true story involving a princess is that of Morgana taking Camelot, and he’s fairly sure that it won’t count as appropriate. And, for that matter, the princesses in tales told to small girls are probably not supposed to be evil. Then again, just because the story has to be true, it doesn’t mean it has to have happened to him.

“I don’t know any princesses, love. I can tell you a story about a girl, though. A girl who is going to be queen.” He waits a long moment for a nod from Molly to tell him this is an acceptable alternative. “Once upon a time,” he begins, smiling at her the best he can when his heart is in his mouth and the key part in this having a happy ending is – as it always is – Merlin, “There was a maid. She was beautiful and kind, loved by everyone, including the prince of her kingdom. One day she was kidnapped, by terrible men who thought she was someone else, the child of a very rich man. They meant to sell her back to him, for a lot of money. The man wouldn’t pay, because she wasn’t his daughter, so it fell to the prince who loved her and his servant to risk the king’s anger and save her...”

Molly is yawning sleepily by the time Gwaine concludes his tale with the heroic rescue of Gwen. He tells of Merlin’s magic, though he mentions no one by name and leaves Lancelot out of the tale entirely, since Bertram probably wouldn’t consider a love-triangle _appropriate_. It is the truth, even if it isn’t quite all of it, and his family all seem content (even Gareth, whose smile indicates that he has forgiven Gwaine for this not being events that happened to him).

Rebekah stands, beckoning to Molly. “Bedtime now, sleepyhead. Say goodnight to your uncles and let’s go.”

“Thank you, Unca Gwaine,” Molly says, standing on Gwaine’s legs and pressing a kiss to his cheek before jumping down to the floor (and if he’d known that was what she was planning, he’d have lifted her himself, because _ouch_ ). Gwaine realises how privileged he is when she only hugs Gareth, and says in what is probably supposed to be a whisper but isn’t, “You were right. He does tell good stories.”

Gwaine laughs (it sounds hollow to his own ears, but no one else reacts like it is) at his guilty expression, then stands himself. “‘S fine, ‘Reth. Not like we didn’t all know it was your idea. Thirsty work, though, storytelling. Reckon you owe me a drink.” Gareth agrees readily, and Gwaine worries that he’s leading his brother down the path to his own semi-drunken lifestyle, though his worry is not enough to change his mind when floating inside his brain is the sad look Merlin wore when he told this to Gwaine, the same look he always wears when it comes to matters of Gwen, Arthur and Lancelot. He needs a drink, and he needs not to be alone when he has it.

Gareth is already out of the door when Gwaine glances back to see Bertram staring intently at his knees. He isn’t sure what impulse it is that makes him ask if Bertram wants to come with them, and he’s almost certain of what the answer will be, but he offers anyway.

“Why would I do that?” Bertram inquires, and Gwaine thinks that the harshness in his voice sounds a little forced. It’s still there either way, just as he knew it would be.

“Fine. Forget I asked.” Gwaine stomps from the room, regretting his ridiculous offer all the way through the house and down the path to the gate. Gareth is trying, feebly, to joke him out of his dark mood when they hear Bertram calling after them.

“Gwaine, hold on for a moment.” Gwaine rolls his eyes but waits for him to catch up, gesturing for Gareth to go on without him.

“What, Bertie? You’ve made your feelings quite clear already. No one expects you to spend time with me if you don’t want to.” He suspects he probably sounds hurt, though he has no idea why he should. If he can hide the fact that he isn’t satisfied with a lifetime of drifting aimlessly, that he longs for something more, something he had and lost, then he should be able to convince everyone he’s not bothered by Bertram being Bertram.

“Were you serious?” Bertram says, and Gwaine thinks from his expression that he’s probably genuinely wondering.

He doesn’t quite know why he answers honestly, only that he does. “Yeah. Not that it really matters, does it?”

Bertram nods and smiles (not a smirk or a sneer or a victorious grin but an actual smile, unlike anything Gwaine has seen from his brother since he was young). “Shall we go, then?”

X

Drinking with both of his brothers starts off just as awkward as Gwaine should have expected it to be. Bertram glares and sneers, alternating between the two expressions every few minutes, while Gareth seems horribly offended that Gwaine wanted him to drink with them. Gwaine regrets it, sort of, because the three of them have never been able to get on as a group. At the same time, he doesn’t, because Bertram has never shown any sign of wanting to spend time with the pair of them before sitting to hear Gwaine’s story this evening, and Gwaine likes to think maybe they can change. They were friends, once, before Bertram grew up and Gwaine did not.

By the time Gwaine has paid for two drinks apiece, Bertram has loosened up some (for him, anyway) and Gareth has most forgiven him (they mostly take turns at buying drinks, and Gareth cannot hold a grudge to save his life), at least enough to point out something Gwaine has been doing his best to ignore.

“Did you know Maggie’s staring _again_?” he laughs, pointing in the direction of a table by the door.

Gwaine rolls his eyes, unamused. “When isn’t she?” he mutters, tone verging on irritated.

Gareth nods, and Bertram twists in his seat to look. “Who is Maggie?” he asks, then frowns a little. “For that matter, why is she staring?”

“Maggie is the gorgeous redhead who wants to shag our brother,” Gareth drawls, taking the same enjoyment in Gwaine’s blatant discomfort as he has each time he has point her out. Gwaine slumps in his seat, sure that this is about to result in some kind of rant criticising his loose morals and carefree attitude.

Bertram looks at him in curiosity. “Why haven’t you?”

“Why...did you drink before we got here, Bertie?” Because two drinks is nowhere near enough for Bertram to have forgotten his personality so completely. Two drinks isn’t even enough for him to sound drunk.

Bertram smiles (the second time that evening). “Don’t get me wrong, I’m impressed. I was just wondering. As far as I know, you’ve come home each evening since you’ve been back.”

“Yeah, well, maybe she’s just not my type. Maybe no one here is.”

“Too good for people here, are you?” Gareth asks, and Gwaine tries to work what time tonight his brothers swapped minds.

He gives the most genuine, honest response he’s offered to any question since he returned, and only because he knows ‘Reth won’t believe him. “Maybe it’s that they’re too good for me,” he mutters, and Gareth chuckles.

X

“You know,” Bertram says as they walk back up the hill to the house, supporting Gareth between them. “Just because I disapprove, it doesn’t mean you need to change.” He stops talking and examines Gwaine over Gareth’s head. “We all know what you’re like when you’re away from home. You don’t need to deny who you are for our sakes.”

Gwaine, more sober and more maudlin than he is most evenings he goes out, decides to continue with his vein of truth. “Suppose I changed before I got here.”

“I saw your neck the evening you got back, little brother.”

Gwaine feels the same sickness he does each time he thinks of letting Montague fuck him the same day he pledged his being to Merlin and fled Camelot. It was some stupid attempt to prove something to himself, something he knew at the time wasn’t true, and just remembering it makes him feel like he’s suffocating. He should have protested more, said no and stuck with it rather than giving in after almost no persuasion, figuring it was something he’d end up doing soon enough so he might as well get it over with quickly. He wonders if Merlin knows yet just how loathsome he is, and the wondering hurts almost as much as remembering does. “That was a mistake,” he says through gritted teeth. “Not one I’ll repeat, either.”

Bertram doesn’t answer him, just raises an eyebrow that asks everything and assumes nothing, a look so alien to him that Gwaine has no idea how to respond.

X

“It isn’t that you aren’t welcome here, love,” his mother says as she transfers a large pan of eggs from the stove to the table, “but I was wondering how long you intended to stay, Gwaine?”

Gwaine doesn’t answer immediately, waiting until the flurry of plates being passed around and food doled out is over. He splutters a laugh as Gareth gets his knuckles rapped for trying to help himself to bacon, shrugs, and mutters, “I hadn’t really thought about it.” The selfishness of showing up uninvited and without warning hasn’t escaped his notice, but at the time all he really wanted to do was escape. He didn’t consider how close it is to winter, how short a time it is until travel will become deeply unpleasant. Now that he’s here, it’s still too soon to leave, barely three weeks since he arrived, even if he would have been here and gone in less time than this on earlier visits.

He isn’t ready to return to Camelot, and won’t be before the weather turns, nor does he have the funds or the inclination to go elsewhere.

“When you do go, can I go with you?”

“Gareth!” his mother snaps, before Gwaine has the chance to process this. “I’ve told you not to ask that. One of my boys roaming the lands is bad enough.”

Gwaine figures it’s easiest to let his mother handle this, choosing to eat his breakfast silently and pretend Gareth didn’t say anything. He sort of figures his mother is strong enough to talk him out of it.

“I won’t be _roaming the lands_ ,” Gareth argues, and it seems Gwaine figures wrong. Rebekah picks up her plate and Molly’s, leading her daughter from the room; Gwaine gathers this isn’t the first time this conversation has taken place, and that it has not ended quietly in the past. “I don’t intend to keep travelling.”

That’s fortunate, Gwaine thinks, seeing as anyone going with him in hopes of seeing the world is going to be greatly disappointed. “What do you intend to do, if you wouldn’t be coming with me to travel?” he asks.

“I want to become a knight.” Unfortunately for Bertram, Gwaine has just put a decent forkful of eggs into his mouth. It doesn’t combine well with the surprised breath he takes on hearing Gareth’s intention.

They don’t know, he is sure of that, not with how careful he is to keep names of people and places out of his stories, how determined he is not to give away the slightest hint of how he knows what he knows. They don’t know, and he doesn’t freaking want them to.

“That’s no better,” their mother argues, and in some small part of his mind, Gwaine can remember her face when his father’s body was brought home, battered and bruised and barely recognisable as the man who left them to fight a war. Most of his reasons for keeping his recent past a secret are selfish ones, but if he needed any others his mother’s mental wellbeing would definitely make the list.

Gareth is so much calmer than their mother right now, the thought he has put into this evident in his voice. “I can’t stay here forever, Ma. I want to do something with my life.”

“Why are you asking to come with me?” Gwaine asks, effectively cutting his mother off and directing her ire to him. It isn’t a deliberate thing, but he has to know, has to be certain Gareth hasn’t managed to link him with knighthood in any way. “Why not go alone?”

Gareth smiles, and Gwaine realises he has accidentally managed to sound like he’s agreed to let Gareth travel with him. “Bertram says you were in Camelot. Knowing you, you’ll know all the best places to stop on the way. And it’s safer, anyway, isn’t it?”

“Camelot?” _Fuck_ , Gwaine thinks. Hearing his brother wants to be a knight is bad enough, but why the hell would he pick Camelot? “Why not stay closer to home?” Because even if Gareth goes to Camelot before him, alone...it isn’t even that they look at that much like each other, but for their eyes. All it would take would be for Gareth to mention him by name and they’d put the pieces together. It isn’t like his lineage is that much of a secret, not an important one, but it is his to tell if he wants to. He told Merlin because he liked him, because he trusted him, and because...well, it was Merlin, wasn’t it? He didn’t tell the others, and he doesn’t want Gareth to do it for him. He doesn’t want the others to tell Gareth who he is, either, and he knows they won’t keep quiet once they know Gwaine and Gareth are related. Every single secret Gwaine has is going to come out if Gareth does this.

“Why not stay here? Have you forgotten what happened to Father?” Gareth stands, dropping his cutlery to clatter loudly on his plate. “I won’t fight for the king who killed him and left us with nothing.”

Gwaine moves to his feet as well, trying to ignore his mother and Bertram’s twin looks of surprise as he glares at his younger brother over the table. “And what makes you think Camelot is any better?” he shouts, feeling sick as he does. It is a betrayal to say it. Camelot is at least as much his home as this place is, and his heart, too, and Merlin is right; Arthur is as loyal to his men as they are to him, and he would never leave a family as his was left.

“Come on, Gwaine, we all know what you think of royalty. Your opinion is hardly an unbiased one. And you must have heard things about Prince Arthur.”

Gwaine forces himself to scoff, as he did whenever he heard stories about the great and just Prince Arthur of Camelot before he actually met the man (and afterwards, sometimes, but mostly just to piss off Merlin). “You hear stories about all kings. It doesn’t make them true.” They are, of course, almost everything Gareth has heard, and everything Gwaine has told him and Molly since. His honour tells him to stop doing this, to cease disparaging his home and his world, the prince he has pledged his life to serve and the men who have become like brothers to him who have done the same, but he doesn’t. Camelot is _his_ , to ignore and try to forget and never, ever think about except for the moment between waking and sleeping when he is too tired and too sad to remember why he shouldn’t, and he doesn’t think he can carry on as the self he almost is now when at any point he might be confronted with mention of it.

“And have you heard bad things about him? I don’t think so.”

“Gareth,” their mother says, her voice brittle in a way Gwaine has never known it to be. “Gareth, please, listen to your brother.”

Gareth looks just as unsettled by her tone as Gwaine feels, but he still shakes his head. “No. This is what I want to do, Ma. Bertram has his family, now, and Gwaine is happy with his travelling, aren’t you?” Gwaine nods, because saying yes is the simple thing to do, so much easier than explaining that he hasn’t moved for months and that happy is so very far from what he is right now. “I just want to be happy, too. You understand that, don’t you?”

Gareth looks at the three of them in turn, clearly hoping for some sort of agreement. Bertram and his mother stare back at him, unmoved by his plea. Gwaine wants to nod, because he does understand. He understands the desire to fight, for his own cause or for someone else’s, and he understands the need to get out of his home, to do something with what few options he has. Even if he didn’t fight when it meant the most to him, even if he just let Merlin walk away from him with barely a word of argument, he understands. He doesn’t nod, though, because he isn’t quite the same selfish bastard he was when he left home the first time (or most of the times after that, sneaking away in the middle of the night to avoid his mother’s tearful goodbyes) and he’s thinking of his ma’s feelings more than his or Gareth’s.

Gareth waits longer than any sensible person would – Gwaine does love how much of an optimist his brother is, even if he thinks he’s a fool because of it – before accepting their refusal. “Right. Thank you.” He leaves, disappointment clinging to him like a shroud.

Gwaine watches his mother hide her face in her hands and turns to his brother. Bertram shrugs, and even though Gwaine has never been all that good at reading him (getting better, given that they spend a little more time together now, but still not great) this is clear: _you do something_.

“I...” Gwaine says, and his mother looks up, her cheeks wet with tears but her eyes are almost hopeful. “I can talk to him. Try, I mean. I can try talking to him.”

X

Gwaine finds his brother sulking in his room like a petulant child. Or, rather, he finds Ellen in the hall outside the kitchen, who tells him Gareth went upstairs (and it’s at the point where every fifth word is _sir_ , rather than every second word, so clearly something of Gwaine’s many _stop calling me that_ speeches got through to her. Perhaps by the time he’s ready to head back to Camelot, she might have stopped altogether, he hopes).

“‘Reth?” he asks, tapping softly on his door. “Can I come in, bro?”

“No!” Gareth answers angrily. Gwaine ignores him.

Gareth, sat on his bed with his arms folded across his knees, frowns. “What part of _no_ escaped you? I don’t need to hear another list of why I shouldn’t become a knight.”

Gwaine sighs and says, “Budge up,” waiting until Gareth does so before sitting next to him. He hasn’t seen his brother look this disappointed in...well, it’s definitely been years, but it’s only when he’s not cheerful that Gwaine appreciates how often Gareth is happy. “This is something you really want, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Gareth answers, intense, his lower lip tremulous. “Yeah, it really is.”

Gwaine really did intend to talk out of this. He wasn’t entirely sure how, but he was going to _try_ , at least. The way Gareth is looking at him, though, some blend of sad and just the tiniest bit hopeful, and he can’t even bring himself to make the attempt. Instead of simply saying _I don’t really think it’s a good idea_ and being done with the matter, Gwaine sits for a couple of minutes trying to think up a way to convince Gareth not to do this that doesn’t ruin his brother’s dreams or feel disgustingly hypocritical and disloyal.

The words he finds himself saying are not anything of the sort, though, and are something of a surprise to him. “Can you fight?” he asks, and the hope in his brother’s eyes bursts into bloom.

“I can learn. If you’ll teach me?”

_Damn_ , Gwaine thinks, agreeing. Their mother is going to slaughter him.

X

“How did it go?” Bertram asks Gwaine that evening, stopping him just before he goes upstairs to bed.

“Well,” Gwaine answers, because, as per usual, the truth will only get him hurt.

Bertram’s gaze feels like a physical weight, and Gwaine spends the long seconds between his answer and the appearance of Bertram’s smile wanting desperately to run away. “It’s funny,” Bertram says quietly. “You still think I can’t tell when you’re lying.”

Gwaine flinches, but refuses to defend himself. “Goodnight, Bertram,” he murmurs, and wonders what else his brother has seen when Gwaine didn’t think he was looking.

X

It crawls under his skin while he sleeps, waiting until Gwaine is sure he’s beaten it before coming back just as strong. He’ll laugh one evening when he’s drinking with ‘Reth, sometimes Bertram as well, see Maggie or some other pretty girl smile at him and think, _yeah, next time_. He’ll laugh, win at cards, flirt with strangers, and feel like a whole person again, like he hasn’t left the bigger half of himself somewhere else.

It crawls under his skin while he sleeps, burrows deep and rips the half-healed scabs from his heart, fills his head with dreams of white castles and blue eyes and a life that meant something. He wakes with a lump in his throat no amount of swallowing can get rid of and a desire to saddle his horse and ride east, ride for Camelot until either he or the horse gives out.

He doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. Each time he feels the burning itch in his skin, hears the voice that whispers _go back, go home_ , he runs. Not towards Camelot, not away from it, just runs, in layers of shirts that do little to hold back the cold winter air. Runs in unwieldy boots in circles around the house, runs until the nausea he feels outweighs the urge to go back.

And then he goes inside, wanting nothing more that to huddle under blankets by the fire in his room until his fingers feel slightly less like ice, and wakes Gareth up. His brother hates mornings even more than he does, but the fact that he is up every single day before breakfast shows just how dedicated he is, and Gwaine is kind of glad he agreed to teach him. They run drills with actual blades (Gwaine uses his own sword, and digs out their father’s from the attic for Gareth), because Gareth needs to learn the weight and balance of a sword, then switch to sticks when it comes to actually sparring since they don’t have practice swords. They fight in the stables, despite it being a little too cramped to be practical, because if their mother saw them out on the lawn the consequences would be intolerable. Gareth is competent, if not excellent, at hand-to-hand combat, but his ability with a sword is limited, largely from lack of experience, and Gwaine imagines he’s worse with other forms of weaponry, though he doesn’t have the opportunity to test him.

His mornings are spent training, his evenings drinking, and it turns out home isn’t all that different to Camelot except it has family instead of friends. He’s still fucking miserable. Almost the only relief to his heartache is the couple of afternoons a week he sits with Molly in his lap, telling of the great deeds performed by the man he loves. And even then, he’s running out.

And what then, when there are no more stories and he has to choose between disappointing Molly and revealing how he knows all he knows? What then, when he has to find another excuse to let Merlin be the centre of his thoughts?

X

“Merlin,” Arthur calls, tone as imperious as ever (at least, as ever except for when he was demonstrating unnerving concern for Merlin’s well-being). Merlin exchanges a look with Lancelot, who seems to have just as little idea of what Merlin is being summoned for, then joins his prince at the entrance to the training field.

“Yes, sire?” he says, seeing as Uther is sitting in the chair brought outside especially for him each morning. The king is usually too distracted by whatever thoughts are plaguing him to demonstrate awareness of his surroundings, but it is better to be safe than sorry.

“I wish to speak to the man who has been observing us all for the last few days. Lancelot said he pointed him out to you.” Arthur waits for Merlin’s nod, then smiles. “Good. You’ll be able to ask him to join myself and my knights for a hunt this afternoon.”

Merlin frowns, wondering why everyone seems to think this man is something to be concerned about, and why – if they are all so concerned – Arthur thinks it a good idea to meet with him outside of the city. “Is that wise, sire?”

“I can’t meet with him in the city, can I?” Arthur’s eyes flick to his father, and Merlin accepts his point: if Uther dislikes his son conversing for too long to people he knows, he really won’t be happy with him meeting with a stranger. “Besides, he doesn’t seem too strong, does he?”

“No,” Merlin concedes, “But not all threats you face are as innocuous as physical strength.” When Arthur doesn’t understand this, Merlin glances over his shoulder at the king, turns so his back is completely to him, and wiggles his fingers in what he hopes looks like a magical gesture.

It seems it does, since Arthur’s confused expression clears and he smirks in a slightly condescending fashion. “Your concern is appreciated, Merlin, but if that was his plan I could have been killed long before his presence became worthy of attention.”

Arthur’s logic is sound, terrifyingly so; if a magic-user ever decides to murder Arthur, he could be dead long before Merlin’s potion has a chance to wear off. He knew that already, of course, but unless someone draws his attention to it Merlin can pretend otherwise. It isn’t healthy, he knows, but since he can’t change matters it seems a little pointless to worry about yet another thing. “I’ll tell him,” Merlin replies, and is pleased to hear how steady his voice is. “If that’s all...?”

“You’re dismissed,” Arthur agrees, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder and returning to his men.

X

“Stay close to Arthur,” Merlin mutters to Leon as they stand waiting with the others for their mysterious observer to join them. He’d been in something of a hurry when he passed along Arthur’s _invitation_ , needing to make it to lunch before Lancelot came back to get him, and hadn’t actually had time to ask for the man’s name once he’d made clear just how obligatory acceptance of this invitation was (much to Arthur’s disapproval).

Leon gives him a questioning look. “Is there something to be concerned about?” he asks, just as quietly.

“I don’t know. Arthur thought it necessary to speak to him, about his watching us all, and...there’s nothing I can do to protect him if this goes wrong.” It is good, to be able to speak of his magic openly, at least amongst the small group of his friends, and know that no harm with come to him because of it. There isn’t the same thrill he felt when he told Gwaine of all he has accomplished, but then the others don’t have the same look when they hear of it, a combination of awe and delight and respect and never, ever fear. “Just, stay close to him, please, Leon.”

“I will, Merlin. I’m sure there’s not anything to worry about, anyway. Arthur just wants to talk to him.” Leon’s words serve to make Merlin feel a little better, sort of. It isn’t really that he believes him when he says that there’s nothing to worry about (he’s heard that far too often, only for Arthur to nearly die very shortly afterwards), but if Merlin can’t use his magic to protect Arthur, asking Leon to be extra alert is probably the next best thing.

“Mount up,” Arthur calls, effectively ending their conversation. Merlin returns to his own horse, having left it with Lancelot while he spoke to Leon, and scrambles up in a somewhat inelegant way. Arthur leads them from the city, Leon and Merlin just behind him, Percival and Elyan either side of their watcher, and Lancelot bringing up the rear.

Merlin can smell snow on the wind, although it won’t come today, he thinks, but when it does arrive the ice still on the ground in the middle of the day suggests it’s liable to settle. Their breath fogs as it hits the cold air, and even the large amount of sunlight streaming into the clearing in the woods they stop in does little to provide warmth.

As if on some prearranged signal, the knights form a circle around their watcher as soon as his feet hit the ground, five hands hovering very close to sword handles but not going so far as to draw them, yet. Merlin imagines it feels more than a little unnerving, and is really quite glad he is standing outside the circle rather than in the middle. He’s had his share of time as the centre of very suspicious attention, and is happy to let it be someone else’s turn.

“I knew this wasn’t just a friendly invitation to go hunting with you all,” their watcher says, the calmness of his voice belied by the way he clenches and unclenches his fists, keeping them firmly behind his back, away from any visible blades (a grand gesture, but Merlin hasn’t ruled out the possibility of hidden ones). “I didn’t realise you were planning to lead me out here and kill me, though. I think I might have said no, if I had.”

Arthur steps forwards, head held high. “We just want to ask you a few questions. We don’t have any intention of killing you...”

His sentence is left hanging, audibly so, and the knights all take a small step towards their watcher. “Unless you don’t like my answers, right?” he asks. Merlin watches his hands curl into fists, again and again and again, and circles around him, the others still between him and the man. There is no evidence of his nerves on his face, and Merlin is impressed by the flawless mask of his easy, relaxed smile. “I’d assure you that I mean no harm, but I doubt you’d believe me. What can I tell you?”

“You can tell us anything and _everything_ we want to know,” Arthur states, but the menacing quality of his voice is somewhat diminished by the slight shake at the end of it. _He’s nervous_ , Merlin wants to tell him, because who can threaten someone who looks totally unruffled when surrounded by five well-armed and well-trained men. Arthur continues bravely with his attempts at intimidation, ineffective as he must think they are. “Beginning with your name, and the reason you’ve been watching our training sessions so persistently.”

“Montague,” their watcher answers, moving his right hand from behind his back, and stopping very quickly when Arthur, Leon and Lancelot all begin drawing their swords. Percival and Elyan, to whom Montague has his back, don’t, and Merlin assumes that means his hand is empty. “Whoa,” he says, almost laughing. “Only wanted to shake hands. A little twitchy, aren’t we?”

“We prefer to think of it as _on our guard_ ,” Elyan says, voice low and serious.

“Too often, we have good reason to be,” Percival concludes. Merlin isn’t sure how Montague remains facing Arthur, when Percival is practically breathing down his neck, but he does.

“Why have you been watching us?” Arthur repeats, then adds something Merlin wasn’t expecting. “Who are you spying for?”

Well, that explains why they all seem to think there is reason to be concerned, if they think Montague is gathering information on the knights and their training patterns. What it doesn’t explain is why Arthur thought leading him out into the forest was a good idea, when top of the list of people who may want a spy in the city are Morgana and Morgause. Merlin’s attention moves from the circle of his friends to the trees around them, half-convinced someone is going to jump out and attack them right that second.

No one does, but that doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Spying?” Montague says, and Merlin returns his gaze from the forest. “I wasn’t spying. I was watching, looking for weaknesses.” He seems to realise what he has just said almost immediately, and regrets it. “Not like that! Really not like that.”

Unfortunately, the point of Arthur’s sword is already less than an inch from Montague’s throat, steady and unwavering, and Merlin watches the blood drain from his face. “How many ways are there to look for weaknesses?” Arthur drawls. Merlin isn’t entirely sure why they aren’t attacking already, and thinks it highly out of character for Arthur.

Merlin sees Montague’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, and very nearly feels sorry for him (almost certainly would, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s magicless and the knights have got him believing that this man might pose a semi-serious danger to Arthur). “I don’t intend to share what I see,” Montague says, sounding no less confident, even though his smile is visibly shaky. “I want to try out for your knights, sire. Thought I’d see what I was up against first.”

“One would usually begin with an introduction, then,” Arthur states calmly, not moving his sword point. “Your lineage?”

Merlin is unlucky enough to be standing behind Arthur, so he misses the look Leon turns to give him, but he imagines it to be just as incredulous as his own. “Prince Arthur,” Leon murmurs, “I might be wrong, but I believe he wishes to join your knights specifically.”

Certainly, not all nobles Merlin has met dress in silk and parade around demonstrating the power their birth provides them with (Gwaine is the obvious example, but Arthur isn’t quite the prat he was at first), but they are few and far between, and Montague doesn’t give the slightest hint of being of higher birth than Merlin. Okay, perhaps not Merlin, given that he didn’t even know who his father was until a couple of years ago, but the others.

“You aren’t, Sir Leon,” Montague answers. “My father was a travelling healer, my mother a baker’s daughter who ran away with him.”

Arthur frowns, and moves his sword a little. “Whilst I appreciate your endeavour,” he smirks, sounding entirely unapologetic, “There is no precedent for such things.” Merlin repeats his incredulous glance at his prince; given the presence of Lancelot, Elyan and Percival, it seems just a little bit of a lie. Montague might not have made the best of impressions, but Merlin doesn’t see what has Arthur so opposed to the idea that he would resort to evident untruths as arguments.

It seems that Montague agrees with Merlin entirely, since for the first time this conversation he takes his gaze from Arthur to look at all of the knights in turn (not Leon, though, and Merlin has to admire his information gathering skills). “It seems to me that you have quite a precedent for such things,” he says, grinning as he turns a full circle.

“Circumstances,” Arthur replies. “At the time, I deemed it necessary.”

“I just want the opportunity to try out.”

Arthur sheathes his sword, and the knights finally move their hands away from their own blades, since apparently Arthur’s decision that Montague poses no danger is enough to convince them. “I’m sure you do. Unfortunately, that isn’t an option.” He turns from Montague and begins walking back to the horses, the others following him.

Merlin takes a step after them, then glances back over his shoulder to see Montague’s shoulders slump and him lower his head, strands of hair falling across his face. He pauses, indecisive, for a moment; he should be following Arthur and the others, and there’s still a chance this man is more of a threat than he seems to be, but...he looks genuinely saddened by Arthur’s refusal. “I’m sorry,” Merlin tells him, and Montague starts slightly.

“I didn’t know you were still here,” Montague says, straightening immediately and grinning with a certainty Merlin is pretty sure he doesn’t feel. “It’s Merlin, isn’t it? Prince Arthur’s manservant.”

“Yeah,” Merlin replies, grinning back at him and shaking the hand offered to him. “I know Arthur sounded harsh, but he’s under a lot of stress at the moment.” It’s a pretty poor excuse, but Merlin feels obliged to say something in defence of his prince, even if he isn’t sure he agrees with his decision.

Montague allows his smile to fade a little, though Merlin still doesn’t think it’s real; the only honest emotions this man has shown were his nerves, never displayed blatantly, and this defeat, which he didn’t let out until he thought they were all gone. “Was a long shot, anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hmm,” Merlin says. “I’ll talk to him, if you like?”

He adds a slight twitch of surprise to the list of real feelings Montague has shown, and wonders why simple kindness should come as a shock to him. “Why would you do that?” Montague asks, and Merlin shrugs.

“A person’s worth shouldn’t just be based on who his father is,” he says. “I can’t promise that I can change Arthur’s mind, but I’ll try. Eat with us this evening, and I’ll tell you how it went.” He might as well, he figures, since if he’s deciding he trusts this man enough to plead his case to Arthur, he can trust him enough to share food with him.

“Eat with...?”

“The knights and I. In the mess hall.” Montague squints in a confused sort of way, and Merlin interprets this to mean he doesn’t know his way around the castle too well yet. “I’ll show you, if you meet me outside the castle at about sunset?”

Montague nods and says, “Thanks, Merlin. For the invitation and for offering to help a nobody like me.”

“ _Titles don’t mean anything_ , a friend told me. _It’s what’s inside that counts_.” He blushes slightly, and laughs. “It didn’t sound quite so cheesy when he said it, but the point still stands.” Merlin thinks of Elyan and Gwen, Percival and Lancelot, Gwaine, himself; all nobodies in terms of their birth, at least as far as Arthur knows, and all set to be the next king’s inner circle. “ _Nobody_ is relative, isn’t it? Arthur’s knights have all saved his life at least once. I’d say that makes them somebodies, whatever anyone else might think.”

“ _Titles don’t mean anything_?” Montague echoes. “Met a man, a month or two ago, who said something pretty similar. It was more of a toast than a grand speech, but the message was the same, I reckon. _Nobility_ , he said, and _fuck the lot of them_. Poetic, don’t you think?” He smirks, clapping Merlin on the shoulder. “You should probably catch up with them. I’ll see you this evening, Merlin.”

X

This being one of the king’s more lucid days – few and far between, now, and Merlin knows Gaius fears each one will be the last –, Arthur hands back some of the duties he’s adopted of late to Uther and announces that the rest can wait. Initially, this seems to Merlin to be a good thing, since Arthur gets a little tetchy when people interrupt his work, and he wasn’t sure what other opportunity he’d have to talk to him about Montague. Then, of course, he hears that Arthur intends to take the remainder of the afternoon off for target practice, and his optimism vanishes like a candle flame in the rain.

Merlin hates target practice. Arthur spends more than enough time throwing things at him; scheduling extra time to do so is both cruel and unnecessary, since Arthur already has fairly impressive aim.

“No, Merlin,” he says, when they reach the field and Merlin picks up the target. “Not for me. If you’re going to learn to fight, you should do it properly.”

Merlin gapes just a little bit at his prince, because giving him a knife and telling him to throw it is even more absurd than giving him a sword to fight with. “This is a bad idea,” he states, quite determinedly.

Arthur laughs. “Nonsense, Merlin. You’re not nearly as incompetent as you think you are.”

Yes, Merlin thinks. Yes he is, and any number of people will agree with him, at least when it comes to situations in which some level of coordination is required. It is a terrible, _terrible_ idea, even if Arthur has been having a difficult time of late and needs the amusement value of Merlin being really bad at something. “Fine,” he huffs, agreeing very reluctantly. “Just make sure there’s no one in the way. Or near the target. Or me. And if the knives could be blunt, possibly made of paper.” Then again, Merlin has had an absurd number of paper cuts in his life, and there is no way at all to make this safe for himself and anyone who might happen by.

Arthur begins, much like Lancelot did, with trying to teach Merlin the proper way to hold a knife. When his first few attempts at demonstrating it fail, he resorts to grabbing Merlin’s hand and physically forcing his fingers into the correct position, despite the fact that Merlin is pretty sure hands in general aren’t meant to bend that way, and his own are extra resistant. After fifteen minutes of deeply awkward and slightly painful hand-holding, Arthur deems his grip adequate (or so he says, but Merlin suspects he’s just finding this far less entertaining than he’d though it would be), and they move on to the actual throwing part.

Merlin wants, almost immediately, to go back to holding hands.

His first attempt is less a throw and more of a forceful drop; the knife sails inelegantly through the air for approximately three feet before landing, hilt first, on the grass. Merlin turns from his failure in time to see Arthur try, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile. The second knife goes further than the first, and in the opposite direction, landing several yards behind them. He has no idea how he did it, and spends more than a few minutes apologising to a rather startled girl unfortunate enough to be walking past the field at the time. Arthur smile is far less well hidden, though he at least has the good manners to promise the girl it won’t happen again (it does).

By number six, with which Merlin manages to trim his own hair, still skilfully avoiding the target and – far more impressively – his own ear, Arthur is laughing openly and apologising profusely for doubting Merlin’s incompetence, while Merlin is seriously considering asking to be the target again.

At ten, they give up, Arthur grinning broadly as he sends Merlin to collect the knives (only nine of them, none even close to where they’re supposed to be, seeing as the eighth blade vanished completely shortly after leaving his hand). “I said it was a bad idea,” Merlin mutters, tugging at the uneven strands of hair like that will make them grow again.

“On the contrary, Merlin, I think it was really quite an excellent idea. One of my best, possibly.”

Merlin wouldn’t go quite that far (or anywhere near that far, if he’s totally honest), but perhaps Arthur has had worse ideas in the past. At least this one has served its purpose, assuming that Merlin is right in believing its purpose to be allowing Arthur the opportunity to piss himself laughing. “Hmm,” he says. “Since you’re in such a good mood this evening, I want to talk to you about Montague.”

“Of course you do, Merlin.” Arthur’s laughter dries up as he fixes Merlin with a cool stare. When Merlin refuses to look away first, he rolls his eyes and turns towards the castle. “You don’t have to champion the cause of every commoner seeking knighthood, you know.”

“I know,” Merlin answers, and he does. He has no real reason to want to help Montague, because it’s not like he owes him anything. He has never done anything to save Merlin’s life, or Arthur’s, or anyone else he cares about. But Merlin _wants_ to help, and no one should be deprived of what they want because of their birth; what more reason does he really need? “I don’t have to. But would it hurt to see how good he is?”

“It doesn’t matter how good he is. There’s no point, because he can’t be a knight.”

“And you would have said the same thing about the others. Aren’t you glad you were wrong?” Arthur pauses for a second, and Merlin counts this as a point to him. The prince doesn’t reply – not that Merlin really expected him to – so he continues. “Why won’t you give him a chance?”

“Because, Merlin,” Arthur says, “Even if he passes the test, my father will never allow it.” He doesn’t sound angry, just vaguely apologetic.

Merlin should have known this, really. Given how long Arthur had to argue to get Uther’s permission for the others to stay in Camelot as knights, it’s hardly surprising that he would be reluctant to let another commoner try out, particularly seeing as there isn’t any drastic need for new knights at the moment. But...”You didn’t tell Montague this because...?”

“I didn’t want him taking his request to my father. If he knows I don’t object, he’ll ask the person who does, and we both know that won’t end well for him.” Arthur pushes open the door to the castle, and Merlin glances up at the sky. He has about half an hour left to try persuade Arthur before he has to meet Montague, and he still has to collect Arthur’s dinner before then.

It’ll be quicker to do that now, when he’s near the kitchen, rather than having to walk all the way down from Arthur’s room and back. “Think about not telling your father,” he answers. “He might not even notice someone new training with us all, and if he does you can make something up.” Arthur begins to object, but Merlin cuts him off. “Just think about it. It’s not like you’re not already keeping plenty of things from him. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He veers away from the stairs leading up towards Arthur’s room, heading to those that go down instead.

X

“Tell him he can try,” Arthur states as Merlin places his plate on the table. “Conditionally.”

Merlin feels a brief thrill of victory until Arthur adds that last part, at which point it becomes exasperation. Arthur can never just let Merlin be right; it always has to be on his own terms. “Conditionally?” he repeats, sighing slightly.

Arthur nods, pushing away his paperwork and pulling his plate towards him. “I’m going out on a limb here, Merlin. If I’m potentially going to challenge my father about this, I want to know what he can do. I want him on the field with the rest of you tomorrow morning, with adequate armour. Tell him he’s fighting Percival.”

“Prat,” Merlin murmurs, trying not to smile. “Thank you. I’ll be back after eating; if I don’t go now Lancelot will come looking for me.” It’s just a little pathetic to say that, but the last time Merlin was late for dinner Arthur ended up with Lancelot (angry at the prince and for once actually willing to show it) berating him for not giving Merlin proper opportunity to eat. Arthur was too astonished to do much more than give Merlin permission to go, and his unwillingness to repeat the event means Merlin usually has a reasonable excuse to get away.

X

Merlin stumbles down the stairs at the entrance to the castle, distracted from watching the placement of his feet by the sunset. The walls around the castle are too high to see the sun itself from ground level, but the clouds visible above it are glowing a fierce, beautiful orange, the same colour as the hair of the man waiting for him.

Montague grins when Merlin stops beside him. “Hello,” he says, “How’d it go?” He blinks, then moves so that he’s looking at Merlin face-to-face. “What happened to your hair?”

Merlin laughs and puts both hands to his head, threading his fingers through his hair in an attempt to gauge the difference in length. “That noticeable, huh? Arthur thought he could teach me to throw knives. He thought wrong. As for your knighthood, I have good news and bad.”

Montague frowns but – wisely, Merlin thinks – chooses not to question him further about his hair. “Which news do I want first?”

Merlin leads him through the castle towards the mess hall, walking slightly faster than he usually would, because sword fighting and riding and his miserable failure at target practice mean that he is _hungry_. “I always pick bad first, personally. That way things can only get better. In this case, though...” Merlin trails off for a moment, then picks up again. “Good first, since it won’t make much sense otherwise. Prince Arthur is willing to give you the chance to try out. _Conditionally_.” He drags the word out the same way Arthur did, hoping his tone as he does so conveys the fact that he’s less than impressed with this.

“I didn’t expect him to say yes just like that,” Montague says, seemingly unconcerned by the presence of conditions he has not yet been informed of. “I’m surprised you managed to persuade him as much as that, to be honest.”

Merlin nods; he supposes the average royal isn’t usually quite so tractable, but then Arthur, for all his questionable decisions, isn’t exactly average. “Hmm. Anyway, he wants to see you fight first. We’re here.” He opens the door, then goes through the whole rigmarole required to get rood at the moment. “Sorry,” he says, as Montague looks at the plate of food he’s just been given. “Little bit of a situation at the moment.”

Montague shrugs. “It’s the same almost everywhere. Compared to some places I’ve been recently, this is loads.”

Merlin frowns, this being the first time he’s heard something good about the city’s current food circumstances. Then again, after the unicorn Arthur and Uther have made sure to keep the supplies well stocked, and with hunting parties going out most afternoons they’re in pretty good shape for the coming winter, even if there isn’t as much in the way of crops as people might like there to be. “Okay then. Sit down, and I’ll tell you the rest, seeing as Arthur probably expects me to fill the others in on things as well.” He sits in his usual place, with Lancelot on his right, and indicates that Montague should sit on his left.

“I was just about to come looking for you, Merlin,” Lancelot says, smiling softly, then stopping as he registers the presence of Montague at the table. “Lancelot,” he states, leaning across Merlin to shake hands. “I did not get the chance to introduce myself earlier. You know Sir Leon, obviously, and Elyan and Percival.” The others, sitting across the table from them, nod as Lancelot says their names. Montague looks at them all in turn, and Merlin figures this is probably the first chance he’s had to view Arthur’s knights up close, given that the other times he’s watched them have either been from a distance or when he’s been at least slightly nervous. His gaze lingers on Percival for a minute longer than it does on Leon or Elyan, and Merlin thinks he hears Montague give a quiet chuckle, but can’t imagine why; laughter tends to be far from most people’s minds on first getting a good look at Percival.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, grinning. “Particularly when I don’t have swords pointed at my throat.”

“Why are you here?” Leon asks, cutting through Elyan’s laughter, unexpectedly blunt (Merlin had known someone was going to wonder, but he was sure they’d do so in a slightly more subtle way, particularly if that someone was Leon).

“I asked him to eat with us,” Merlin replies before Montague can say anything. “Arthur’s agreed to let him try out, anyway.”

Lancelot gives Merlin a sharp glance. “Did he no-? New haircut, Merlin?”

“Target practice,” Merlin says, and decides he’s going to have to ask Gaius to do something about it when he gets back to his room that evening, otherwise everyone in the castle will be asking, and he’d like to keep this latest failed attempt at something limited to as few people as possible.

Lance frowns in concern. “Arthur did that?” he asks, sounding not at all happy.

“No,” Merlin laughs, realising as he does so that Lancelot isn’t the only one who looks perturbed. “It’s been months since I annoyed him enough for him to actually aim for my head. At least with sharp things, anyway. He was trying to teach me, and you know how difficult that is, Lancelot.”

Lancelot nods, his frown now one of confusion, and Elyan asks the question they’re probably all wondering about. “How did you manage to cut your own hair while throwing a knife, Merlin?”

“Not a clue, and I have no desire to try again just so you all can find out.” He takes a decent forkful of his stew, and Lancelot takes this as his cue to return to the topic of Montague.

“I did not expect Prince Arthur to change his mind quite so quickly, Merlin.”

Merlin wonders at the phrase _quite so quickly_ , and the implication that Lancelot thought Arthur would change his mind eventually, but doesn’t question it. “Yeah, it’s not as simple as that, really. Arthur wants to see how he does against you all before his test.” The knights look less than impressed, and Merlin thinks it might have been better to leave this part of the explanation to his prince after all, but it’s a little too late for that now. “Percival, you’re up first.”

Montague’s smile vanishes rather abruptly, and he gives Percival another once over. “Oh,” he states, then repeats it when Percival reaches for his goblet and flexes his biceps in what can only be a very deliberate way. “Oh.”

There is a long moment of silence, during which Merlin eats and watches Elyan, Leon and Percival try to hide their smirks (Lancelot doesn’t have a smirk to hide, but he doesn’t exactly look sympathetic, either). “You’ll need armour, too, Montague,” Merlin adds, something of an afterthought. “You know where the field is, and what time training starts.”

Montague smiles slightly hesitantly at him, and Merlin finishes his last mouthful before standing. “I’ll see you all tomorrow,” he says. “Try not to be too intimidating, please.”

He receives three very innocent looks in response to this request, and laughs.

X

“He leaves his left side open,” Bertram says, as he and Gwaine deposit a drunk and largely asleep Gareth on his bed one evening. Gwaine tugs the sheets up to cover his brother snugly and waits until they’re out the door before replying.

“I know. Tried to explain that to him, but...teaching isn’t really my strong point.” Gwaine isn’t even sure when Bertram stopped by to watch them, or how he managed it without Gwaine noticing, and he’s fairly sure asking won’t get him an answer.

Bertram shrugs. “You’re not doing too bad. Give yourself a bit more credit, Gwaine. And if telling Gareth isn’t working, show him.” He states this like it’s absurdly simple and Gwaine should have thought of this already. Actually, it kind of is, and he really should have done.

“Surprise him?” he asks, and Bertram nods. “I take it you want to help.”

X

Over the course of the following week, Gwaine learns two things; Gareth shrieks very loudly, and Bertram is _excellent_ at scaring people.

X

Merlin, for once, is not late for training; seeing as he’s the one who got Montague his chance at this, he figures he ought to be around to support him. Plus, the surprised look Arthur gives him kind of makes the extra effort worth it.

Lancelot is something of a slave-driver when it comes to training. A sweet, kind, polite slave-driver, but strict and determined nonetheless, which makes it a little tricky for Merlin to see how Montague is faring against Percival. He watches when he can, though, largely in glances over his shoulder, and eventually Lancelot gives in to Merlin’s blatant distractedness and allows them to join Elyan, Leon and Arthur in observing them.

The four of them stand there with deeply speculative looks, the meaning of which Merlin can’t understand. As far as he can tell, Montague does fairly well. Percival has an awful lot on him in the way of muscle, and a good bit in the way of height, but Montague is fast. He doesn’t land too many blows, but he dodges more than he catches, and when Percival does succeed in knocking him down he always gets up again with a smile.

Merlin is kind of impressed.

Less impressed when Arthur waves them over and tells the knights (all of them, not just his) that they can take the rest of the morning off. Much confusion and delight abounds, the king’s knights hurrying off before Arthur can change his mind, while the others just frown. “Is there any reason for this sudden kindness, sire?” Leon asks, Elyan, Percival and Lancelot arrayed behind him, Montague lurking just beyond that.

“Merlin’s having lessons in knife throwing,” Arthur drawls with a smile that shows almost all his teeth. “I thought he might prefer not to have everyone witness his utter incompetence.”

It isn’t the insult that bothers Merlin (it’s true, after all, and something he has said himself several times) so much as the assumption that his knife-throwing lessons are a continuous thing. “No,” he says, even more determined that the first time he refused this suggestion. “No, no, no, no, _no_. I permitted this farce yesterday, but it was a one-off.”

“I don’t know where you got that impression, _Mer_ lin. I told you, if you’re learning to fight, you’re doing it properly.”

“I didn’t ask for lessons. We all know this is just another part of my punishment for-” Merlin stops, because Montague is looking increasingly intrigued by this conversation. “Didn’t yesterday succeed in teaching you that this is an awful idea?”

“Merlin, these lessons are about you learning how to defend yourself, given your insistence on following us all into danger.” This comes from Lancelot, of course, and Merlin had actually hoped he’d be on his side in this, given how ready he was to scold Arthur over Merlin’s new haircut. He musters the angriest glare he can, despite how ineffective he knows his glares to be.

Indeed, it seems this glare is even more useless than all the others he’s ever tried, since Leon decides to join in as well. “Seeing as you refuse to stay behind, we’d rather you be an asset, not a liability. You wouldn’t want to be a burden, would you?”

That’s _low_ , Merlin thinks, and he knows exactly why Leon is saying it. It’s not that he’s actually a burden – even though without his magic he’s not exactly a useful member of the team, none of the knights would think it, let alone say it – but...he worries. Merlin is used to knowing he’s a key part of things, or was, and that without him his friends would be dead several times over, even if they didn’t know it until recently. Now, though, he’s slow and tired and the best he can do in a fight is swing a sword fairly erratically, and even though he understands that Leon is only saying this to play on his fears, it works. “I hate you,” he mutters, resigned. “I hate the whole bloody lot of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Arthur replies with good-natured arrogance. “Come on. The rest of you can go, if you want.”

Elyan looks at Percival, the pair of them then turning to Leon, and finally all three to Lancelot, who sighs. “Yeah, we’re staying here,” Elyan says, speaking for all of them. “Do you want to join us, Montague?”

Well, Merlin thinks, at least they all seem to be warming up to the idea of a new knight.

X

Had the knights had any doubts as to whether Merlin truly is as bad as he claims, Merlin is pretty sure the first half hour of watching him is more than enough to get rid of them. He finds that with intense concentration, he can get most knives to head in the general direction of the target, give or take a few yards (well, perhaps slightly more than a few, given that in that first half hour the knights relocate twice when one of Merlin’s more unpredictable throws get a little bit too close). He also finds that his ability to concentrate decreases rapidly after half an hour, particularly when he can hear his name.

“I’m a little surprised Merlin gets away with talking to you all like that,” he hears Montague say, and fights the temptation to turn around. “Let alone Prince Arthur putting up with it.”

Merlin glances at Arthur, who smiles slightly before telling him to carry on. He does, almost managing to clip the edge of the target as Leon answers, “He never used to. Merlin spent a decent portion of his first year here in the stocks, before Arthur realised it did no good whatsoever.”

“So, what? People just ignore it?”

“We do, seeing as Merlin’s kind of the reason we’re here, and he’s fairly careful to mind his manners around people who’re going to object.” Merlin gives Arthur a pointed _ha! See_ look at Elyan’s words, and gets an eye roll in return. His next shot isn’t quite as good, but Merlin stopped counting the bad shots some time ago.

“Merlin is special,” Lancelot says, managing to sound entirely serious, despite the fact that he almost certainly knows Merlin can hear him (and definitely knows of his tendency to listen to other people’s conversations during training, too). If Merlin thought he could throw a knife in their direction ( _accidentally_ , of course) without risk of actually hitting someone, he probably would, because it’s bad enough that they’re all witnessing his complete inability without them ridiculing him as well. “I would not advise you imitate him, if you are actually serious about joining us.”

“ _Actually serious_? You think I’d have let Percival batter me around for half as long as I did if I wasn’t serious?” Percival’s laughter drowns out Montague’s next few words, and Merlin catches only the end of his next sentence, “...the rest of you aren’t quite so insolent.”

“No,” Leon replies. “We know better than to try it.”

“Well, _we_ do,” the smirk in Elyan’s voice is almost audible. “Gwaine never really learnt politeness, did he?”

Merlin wants to speak up and defend Gwaine, who maybe wasn’t the most obedient of knights but has never done anything particularly terrible. Arthur’s glare when he glances at him is enough to dissuade Merlin; he takes another shot and, miracle of miracles, manages to lodge the knife in the very bottom of the target. The knights’ conversation pauses for a brief and slightly mocking round of applause before Montague asks, “Where is Sir Gwaine at the moment?”

There is another pause, this one completely silent, and Merlin realises that no one has actually told Montague about the slight problem that is Uther’s current mental state. He probably knows anyway, given that it’s the subject of much gossip in the lower town, but without confirmation from Arthur or the knights it’s really just rumour, and better to keep it that way. Eventually, Leon answers his question. “Temporarily banished. Gwaine broke a royal edict, almost two months ago now. It was for the good of the people, but Prince Arthur thought it best to get him out of the city, since the official punishment was supposed to be execution.”

Montague’s reply to this is a low mutter that Merlin doesn’t quite catch. Or he doesn’t think he catches it, anyway, because what he hears sounds a lot like, “Well, he didn’t mention _that_.” Ridiculous, since that implies Montague has met Gwaine, who has been gone for months (not even two, Leon said, but it feels so much longer than that to Merlin) and Montague has only been in the city less than a week.

“Sorry?” Lancelot asks, because apparently Merlin isn’t the only one having problems with his hearing.

“I met him,” Montague confirms, and Merlin isn’t even pretending not to be listening now. “It couldn’t have been too long after he was banished. Actually, that explains why he lied about his name. I figured he just didn’t want me to know who he was.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says sharply. “Merlin, pay attention.”

He’d love to, but it’s too late. Merlin might be standing with Arthur trying to throw knives at a target, but his mind is with the knights, desperate to hear something about Gwaine from someone who has seen him since he left. He knows he won’t like what he hears, because Gwaine was a hideous drunken mess when Merlin left him, but he needs to listen. He expects to hear something about Gwaine drinking, swearing, getting into a fight or something. He does not expect what Montague says next.

“He lied about his name?” Leon asks, because of course only he and Lancelot know that Gwaine left willingly rather than being banished.

“Yeah, he told me he was called Percival.” Which explains why Montague paid more attention to Percival than the others at dinner yesterday evening. “The tavern we were at was kind of full, a lot of people coming to the city stopping there. He didn’t realise I was one of them until he was leaving my room in the morning.”

Merlin has to infer what happens next from the aftermath, too busy trying to understand two things to actually see it. The first, the implication of Montague’s words, he understands clearly, _perfectly_ , and almost immediately, but a larger part of his brain tries very hard to convince him that he doesn’t, as if by not understanding it will make it not true. The second is a sensation of slipping in his mind, a feeling of something coming loose that is both infinitely familiar and even less possible than what Montague is suggesting.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouts, full of horrified anger, just as Percival roars, “Get down!” and there is a loud thud. Merlin turns slowly, more than a little scared of what he’ll see. Percival is lying on the floor, Montague’s hair just visible around his shoulder, and a knife is embedded, still quivering slightly, in a fencepost.

“I didn’t throw that,” Merlin says, quietly, and in his voice is the fear and the shock and the horror that he hasn’t processed yet. “I didn’t, did I?”

“No,” Arthur answers, still sounding horrified but not quite so loud. “No, you didn’t _throw_ it.” Merlin watches as Percival stands and helps Montague to his feet, and Elyan kneels and tugs the knife from the fence – or tries, because it seems to be fairly well stuck. “Apologise, and then you can go.”

Arthur says _can_ , but he means _will_ , and Merlin wants nothing more than to be far, far away, but if it means he has to apologise first? No. No, he can’t. “I...I... _Arthur_.”

“ _Apologise_ , now! Anything Gwaine has done is his own fault; I will not permit you to attack potentially blameless strangers for it.” Arthur sighs, and something of the anger fades from his face. “If they ask, I gave you permission to stop taking your potion, okay? Now, _please_ , Merlin.”

_Please_ is something Arthur says so rarely, particularly to Merlin, that he obeys, hating it, and still not sure how he managed what he just did. No, he’s entirely sure, but his potion is supposed to leave him without his magic; he shouldn’t be able to launch knives at people who fuck his...Gwaine. Not Merlin’s, except in his head and by Gwaine’s words, and Merlin needs to think about this later.

“Quite a throw, that,” Montague smirks, shakily, as Merlin draws close.

“Sorry,” Merlin mutters dutifully, not even attempting to make it sound sincere. It wasn’t deliberate, but he does not regret it, and he refuses to pretend that he does. Lancelot is frowning at him, but then Lancelot spends half of his time frowning at Merlin and Merlin will not feel guilty for this.

Montague laughs, clapping Merlin on the shoulder, and Merlin didn’t have a problem with that yesterday but right now his skin is crawling. He doesn’t want these hands on him, hands that have touched Gwaine more recently than he has, and not just touched him but made him feel...Merlin swallows down his nausea and tries very hard not to shudder. “Don’t worry about it,” Montague says, no idea what his admission is doing to Merlin. “No harm done, though if you think you can manage not to do it again...”

“I’ll do what I can,” Merlin murmurs. “Now, I need to go. Clean. I need to clean.”

He flees, as quickly as he can without actually running, before his magic can act on any more of the things he’s feeling.

X

Merlin flees, and it is hollow and instinctive; he isn’t thinking, because if he thinks he will be thinking about Montague and Gwaine and he can’t, not until he’s somewhere safe. He isn’t thinking, and his instincts take him the only place in the city he has never felt at risk.

He closes the door to Gwaine’s room behind him, locks it, and slides to the floor; his legs have done what is required of them, and can do no more for him now. Merlin puts both palms to his face, pressing against his eyes until he sees sparks of colour, rainbows far too vivid and unnatural to ever be replicable in the world. One deep breath, then another, and he can deal with this in a calm, rational manner. He _can_.

Why would Gwaine do this to him?

Why would Gwaine say he loved Merlin, say he would never stand a chance of loving someone else, say he _belongs_ to Merlin? Why would he say these things and then go fuck a random stranger only days later?

Why would Gwaine do this to him?

He _wouldn’t_. Gwaine wouldn’t do anything like this to Merlin, because he loves him even though he doesn’t think Merlin has feelings for him in return. But to himself, though? This is entirely something Gwaine would do to himself.

Gwaine drinks, he fights, he sleeps around. Gwaine does all these things and more, and he calls it living and it isn’t. But he was happy with it, before Merlin, and he was happy with Merlin, or so he said, more than once, even with everything he had to put up with to please Merlin, the lies and the secrecy and the demands on his time and his person with nothing offered in return.

Gwaine was happy, and then he wasn’t, and it is entirely Merlin’s fault. It is so typical for Gwaine to think that Merlin was the only reason he was different, so very, very typical, and Merlin should have known that Gwaine would leave and launch back into his old character, destroying himself willingly and without even realising he was doing it.

And, gods, what if it was more than once? What if Gwaine has carried on doing this, stranger after stranger after stranger, all because Merlin is a hideously selfish bastard? Or, worse, so much worse, what if Merlin is wrong, and it wasn’t just some emotionless encounter? What if Gwaine has feelings for someone else now, what if he is over Merlin just like Merlin said he wanted him to be?

It isn’t just that Merlin is jealous. He is, intensely so, because how else would his magic break through the block on it to attempt the murder – well, no, he saw the height of that knife in the fence, and whilst seriously unpleasant, it probably wouldn’t have killed him – of a man who has done nothing wrong, but he isn’t only jealous. This is guilt as much as anything, remorse, the fact that he is still damaging Gwaine – because he can’t believe otherwise, because believing Gwaine has moved on will kill him – even when they aren’t even in the same place.

It’s the fact that Gwaine is doing all this needlessly, because Merlin was wrong. Merlin was wrong, and Lancelot and Arthur and their scepticism whenever Merlin said he doesn’t love Gwaine are right.

Merlin loves Gwaine, and Gwaine is miles away and doing who knows what with gods alone know who. Gwaine doesn’t know, and by now there is a possibility that he won’t even care.

X

He hides in Gwaine’s room for far too long, until his legs have gone through pins and needles, on to numbness and back to having feeling again, before finally mustering the effort to leave. He cannot stay here forever, and he will not allow everyone to pity him just because he’s too much of an idiot to understand how he feels in time to do something about it.

He will go to Arthur’s room and apologise for letting his emotions control his powers, then get on with his work so he can join the knights for dinner and try to convince Lancelot that he’s absolutely fine.

First, though, he’s going to find Gaius and take another dose of his potion, so that he can risk seeing Montague without a repeat of this morning’s incident.

X

“I don’t understand, Merlin,” Gaius says, a hand on Merlin’s arm where it rests on the table between them. “I watched you drink your potion this morning in this very room. Why would you want to take it again?”

“It isn’t _working_ ,” Merlin hisses, not wanting to risk being overheard, even if hardly anyone would understand what they’re talking about. “I...I did something at training today, without meaning to. It just happened, and I need to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Not for Montague’s sake – or the possibility of any offspring he may wish to have in the future – but because Merlin needs to talk to him about Gwaine, find out where and when and some severely twisted, masochistic part of him wants to know the how as well. He needs to know that this meant nothing to Gwaine, that some part of Gwaine is still his, and if that means talking to Montague then that’s just what he has to do. Jealousy will be strangling him as he does so, jealousy, anger and hatred, and Merlin needs to know he can keep things under control, keep Montague alive and whole long enough to hear it all. He doesn’t particularly want the punishment for whatever his magic might do, either, although he’s more than willing to bear it if he must.

Gaius gives Merlin a long, irritated look, and Merlin is genuinely concerned that he’ll say no. He doesn’t, though, standing and making his steady way towards the work surface upon which most of the tonics and poultices he sells live. “Lancelot said something like this might happen,” he says, picking out a vial of Merlin’s potion. “Take this now, and I’ll have something a little stronger for you tomorrow. Does the prince know what happened?”

“No,” Merlin lies, reluctant to give Gaius the details and the reason, unwilling to see the pity he knows will be in his face. He doesn’t want people to know what Gwaine has done, or the fact that Merlin clearly cares enough to attack the other participant in his...and he can’t even call it infidelity, thanks to his own idiocy. “No, and please don’t tell him.”

“I really don’t think that’s...” Gaius trails off as he repeats the look, this time with extra emphasis on the irritation. “Yes, I suppose it can be a secret, Merlin. Drink up and get back to work.”

Merlin smiles tightly, glugging down his potion, pleased that while his glares are completely ineffective, his _pity me_ eyes more than do their job. “Thanks, Gaius. I’ll see you tomorrow for more, okay?”

X

“Merlin!” he hears as heads towards Arthur’s room. He doesn’t particularly want to see the prince, not at all, given their last encounter (not only does he seriously resent being made to apologise, he doesn’t want to risk hurting Arthur because of his anger), but if he wants to find the knights and Montague, Arthur’s is the best place to start. Of course, he doesn’t really have to ask him now. “Merlin, thank heavens. I have been looking for you.”

Merlin pauses so that Lancelot can join him, deeply discomfited by the concern on his face. He’s even more uncomfortable when Lancelot wraps him in a hug, though of course he understands why. “I am so sorry, Merlin. Are you okay?”

Merlin pats him on the back, squirming inwardly. “I’m fine, Lancelot. But thank you.” Lancelot lets him go at this, one hand still on his right shoulder, the other on his left arm, and studies Merlin intently.

“No, you are not,” Lancelot says, and he looks almost as bad as Merlin feels. _What was the point in asking?_ Merlin wants to say, though he fears it will come out a wail. He holds Lancelot’s gaze, refusing to answer him. “Where have you been?”

“Talking to Gaius,” Merlin sighs, neglecting to mention the fact that he’s not been there all that long. “I needed more potion.”

“I do not think that is a good idea, Merlin.” Lancelot stops, his hands tightening earnestly on Merlin’s arms; Merlin’s sure he doesn’t mean to hurt him, but it does, and he thinks he’ll probably have bruises later. “I have been reading, researching on Gaius’ behalf, and I do not...I have not found anything too terrible, but I have a bad feeling. If the potion is not working, you should stop taking it.”

Merlin shakes his head, resisting Lancelot’s grasp. “I need it,” he says, wrenching free, and Lancelot’s hands drop heavily to hang by his sides. “I deserve it.”

“No one deserves this,” Lancelot answers, heavy and sorrowful. “No one deserves to be half of who they are.”

Merlin could argue that he does, and any other day he probably would, but today he just can’t be bothered. He has bigger concerns. “Do you know where he is?”

“He who?” Lancelot asks, looking truly innocent as he does.

So innocent that Merlin considers the possibility that he actually doesn’t know, particularly seeing as Merlin’s best withering look has no effect whatsoever. “Gwaine’s at his home, Arthur’ll be in his room most of the afternoon, and I’m talking to you. Which he do you think I’m talking about?”

“Oh,” Lancelot mouths, not actually making any sound. He frowns, reaching for Merlin’s arm again, but one set of marks is enough for now; Merlin dodges, taking a step back. “Merlin, you do not want to talk to him.”

Want doesn’t come into it, Merlin thinks, but all he actually says is, “Do you know where he is?”

“Merlin, whatever you are plann-”

“Do you know where he is?” Anything else Lancelot has to say right now is meaningless; today, in the aftermath of finally working out how he feels, the only think that means anything is Gwaine. Not even Arthur comes close right now, even when Merlin considers his duty and his destiny as well as his feelings.

“Arthur has him doing the same sort of things he had me do the first time I was here,” Lancelot tells him, when Merlin’s stubborn unwillingness to budge sinks in. “Try the stables, if you will not let me convince you not to talk to him.”

Merlin nods, forcing himself to smile in gratitude. “Thank you. I’ll see you at dinner.”

X

Lancelot stands and watches Merlin walk away from him, noting the obstinate set of his shoulders, the determined force of his steps. Wherever he has been for the majority of the day, Merlin has reached a decision. Lancelot wants to be pleased for him, but he cannot; Merlin is in the habit of making less than wise choices at times, and Lancelot suspects this is one of them. No matter how little he wants to know whatever Merlin wants to hear from Montague (he was uncomfortable enough hearing the intimate details of Merlin and Gwaine’s relationship whenever Merlin accidentally shared too much, and that was nothing compared to this), he is not going to let Merlin hurt himself with this.

He hurries after him; asking Prince Arthur what he intends to do about Montague and his ambition to become a knight can wait.

X

Gwaine wakes one morning with the certainty that he is ready. He doesn’t know how or why, when he isn’t any more willing to see Merlin again, when he still feels such terrible disgust at the thought of another’s hands on his body, but he is. A few months of hiding and regretting and lying about who he is are fine, but enough is enough.

He is ready to accept who he is now, after Merlin (and how is it that one man can divide his whole life so thoroughly, so that his very being is split into Before and After?). A shadow of who he was, maybe, but not broken. Not lost and lonely and hollow, but strong, mostly, and able to face Merlin without falling at his feet and begging for things to return to how they were. He is ready to tell the truth.

He’s ready to go back.

X

Montague isn’t in the stables, but it isn’t an entirely wasted trip; he was there not too long ago, one of the actual stable boys (John, because even if very few of them speak to him, Merlin still knows most of their names) tells him, before a page came down from the prince requesting Montague walks his hounds, since his servant is temporarily indisposed. This is accompanied by a look that suggests John thinks Merlin is skipping his work, along with something that is probably supposed to be a threat of reporting him, but Merlin isn’t too bothered.

“Which direction did he go in?” he asks, though it takes a stern glance from Lancelot before John points them towards the side gate closest to the kennels. “Thanks,” Merlin says, heading off to further protests from Lancelot.

They catch up to Montague not far outside of the castle walls, and Merlin grins at the sight. Montague is leading three dogs, all of them large and uncooperative, tugging in different directions at once, and had Montague not revealed that he not only knew Gwaine but knew him very well, Merlin could have given him pointers. As it is, he’s perfectly content to just laugh at him, particularly when Rex, the largest, pulls free of his grasp and bounds over to Merlin.

“Down, boy,” Merlin murmurs, even more grateful than he usually is when Rex obeys, flopping at Merlin’s feel like he’s been shot. Montague gapes, and in his surprise releases his hold on Pax and Fides (Merlin has no idea why Arthur picked such pretentious names, and is really just glad Gwen is too sensible to allow Arthur sole power in naming any children they might have), who join Rex in lolling on the ground before Merlin. He has never in his life been so pleased to be chief carer for Arthur’s hounds.

Montague hurries over to them as Merlin gathers up the leads and grips them tightly, Rex’s in one hand, Fides and Pax in the other, and hopes they continue to show an above-average level of obedience. “Please tell me you can teach me that,” Montague says, almost begging. “They really don’t seem to like me.”

“Hmm,” Merlin replies, tugging on the leads just a tiny bit; the dogs rise to their feet, growling a little, and he murmurs at them to quiet down. Montague flinches, even as they fall silent. “You said this morning that you met Gwaine not long after he left here,” Merlin says, finding his courage slightly less present than it had been, although knowing he has three rather menacing dogs and Lancelot on his side helps some. Still, he sounds much more shaky than he’d expected to as he asks, “How was he?”

He squirms internally under the stare Montague fixes him with, gorge rising, though that is nothing compared to how he feels when the stare becomes a smirk. “ _Excellent_ ,” Montague says, “But from your expression I think you already know that. Of course, I’m guessing you aren’t too bad yourself, given that you can persuade Prince Arthur to do things he doesn’t want to, and at least two of the knights seem to know you pretty well. _Special_ , you said, right, Lancelot?”

Merlin doesn’t have a chance to react to this before Montague hits the ground and the dogs go mad, snarling and wrenching at Merlin’s hold on them. They don’t understand what’s being said, obviously, but they’re trained to respond to anything the knights of Camelot consider a threat, and punching someone in the face tends to suggest you think they probably aren’t good news.

“It is a while since I last did that,” Lancelot says to Merlin, flexing the fingers on his right hand, his knuckles visible grazed. “I had forgotten how much it hurts.” He seems to think it worth it anyway, and when Montague turns his head to the side and spits out a mouthful of blood, Merlin finds himself agreeing. “I strongly suggest you take that remark back,” Lancelot damn near growls at Montague. “Take it back, and you owe Merlin an apology, too.”

Montague struggles to his feet as Merlin tries to make it look like the dogs are barely under his control. His magic is still silent, absent, even as his gut churns with combined rage and nausea. “Ouch,” Montague slurs, poking at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Sorry, just which of my assumptions was wrong?” He holds Merlin’s gaze, even with three dogs and Lancelot looking hungry for his blood, though Merlin can’t detect any challenge to it.

“The second,” he answers. “Not that it’s actually any of your business.”

“No, probably not,” Montague agrees, “I’m sorry.” He actually sounds genuine as he apologises, and Merlin is just _confused_. “I heard about Prince Arthur and the maidservant, but it sounded kind of farfetched.”

“Because it’s less farfetched that Arthur and I are...” Merlin’s sentence breaks down into spluttered laughter, because he has not had an easy day, and this is just too ludicrous for him not to laugh. “And Lancelot? Aside from the fact that he’s the straightest man I’ve ever met, he’s like my _brother_. A freakishly overprotective brother, but still. Ew.”

“Thank you, Merlin,” Lancelot frowns, looking at Merlin like he’s mad. Seeing as he’s laughing in a slightly insane way and defending himself and his friends from such absurd accusations for no real reason, Merlin can’t really fault him for it. “If you have got everything you wanted from this conversation” – he throws an angry glance in Montague’s direction, then softens again as his gaze returns to Merlin – “might I suggest we return to the castle?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, eyes on Montague. He isn’t angry anymore, at Montague or himself, just tired. “Yeah, let’s go.” He doesn’t know what he was looking for, but he isn’t going to find it here. Lancelot places a comforting hand on his shoulder as they turn back towards the city, and for the first time in ages Merlin doesn’t try to pull away from it.

“Wait.” They are a good distance from Montague before he calls after them, and something in his voice – Merlin thinks it might be guilt, but he doesn’t know Montague well enough to be sure – makes him stop walking. “He cried,” Montague says, careful to stay out of arms’ reach of Lancelot. “It was nothing, just sex. It meant nothing, and it was my idea, and he only said yes because I’d got him drunk and he had nowhere else to sleep because he was too good to pay someone to give him their room, even though he had money.”

“Come on, Merlin,” Lancelot instructs, so kindly, and the comforting hand on his shoulder becomes a guiding one on his back. “You do not need to know these things.” Merlin resists, because he does need to know them. He looks at Montague around the shield Lancelot is trying to create between them, waiting for him to continue.

“I didn’t realise until afterwards, because I was...he...we weren’t looking at each other, and he was quiet, apart from...” Merlin finds it remarkably easy to not picture it, because the man Montague is describing is so far from the Gwaine he knows, easy and bright and always so intent on seeing Merlin’s face when they made love. He knows he should feel even more guilty about that, but he doesn’t; Montague’s words are confirming that Merlin is special, and it fills him with hope. “I didn’t say before, because it didn’t sound like you _liked_ him, and making someone cry when you sleep with them isn’t something you admit to, but I did. I made him cry like his heart was breaking and neither of us even noticed it until we were done, kind of like you don’t know you’re crying now and I’m sorry. If I’d known he belonged to someone, I never would have done it.”

Merlin moves all the dog leads to one hand so he can put the other to his face, surprised to find his cheeks wet. He wipes his tears away, wondering if Montague has more to say, but the other man just looks at him like a prisoner awaiting judgement. “Gwaine belongs to himself,” Merlin says, and now that he knows they’re there he can feel every single tear streaking down his cheeks.

Montague’s expression is definitely one of guilt now, but under it is a conviction Merlin has rarely seen the equal of. “No, I’m pretty sure you both know he doesn’t. My opinion probably isn’t worth anything to you, but I don’t think he’ll do it again.” He takes a small step towards Merlin, stopping when Lancelot moves quickly to intercept him. “I am sorry,” he repeats.

Merlin doesn’t know what response to give this; apologies are so far from what he expected, when the fault is entirely his own. The choice is his, too: he can forgive, and see Montague every single day, a living, breathing reminder of what Gwaine has done, or he can ignore his apologies, reasonably certain that Montague will leave, maybe because Arthur and Lancelot make him but more likely of his own free will, and effectively ruin this man’s dreams.

“Take Pax,” he offers eventually, hearing Lancelot’s shocked gasp as he disentangles one lead from the others and holds it out to Montague. “He doesn’t pull as much if it’s just him.” He nods as Montague takes the dog from him, returning his tight smile with one a little more relaxed. “I don’t know about either of you,” he adds, when it seems both Lancelot and Montague are content to stand in the meadow outside the city wall staring at him indefinitely, “But I’d quite like to be back before they stop serving dinner, if that’s okay?”

X

“You’re late, Merlin,” Arthur says. “So late, I was beginning to suspect you’d decided I wasn’t eating anything today.”

“Sorry,” Merlin murmurs, “But there _are_ other servants in the castle.” He puts Arthur’s plate on the table and pours a goblet of wine for him, rolling his eyes at the mess Arthur has made whilst unsupervised over the course of the day.

Arthur tucks into his meal with gusto, and Merlin considers making a fat joke of the sort he hasn’t felt up to in months. “I know there are,” Arthur replies, before Merlin can summon the words he needs. “I had someone else bring me lunch, but I thought you’d probably be back before I starved this evening.” Merlin smiles, relieved that Arthur has the good sense to realise he wasn’t going to be too much use today, and the kindness not to come looking for him (or, if he did look, that he lacks the common sense required to actually find him).

“Thank you,” he says, holding Arthur’s gaze until the prince nods, confirming that he knows the real reason for Merlin’s gratitude.

“Find another goblet,” Arthur instructs, “Then sit down.” Merlin obeys, rummaging in the cupboard of homeless things until he finds a goblet, then pours himself a drink, perching on the edge of the seat next to Arthur. “I should not have made you apologise,” Arthur says, out of nowhere. He doesn’t actually apologise himself, but then just admitting he was wrong is more than Merlin could have anticipated, and he knows Arthur is sorry even if he doesn’t say it.

“I understand,” Merlin tells him, and whatever shocks his mind has faced today, whatever emotional hurricane he’s been running, that at least is true. Arthur was just trying to help him save face, to protect his twin secrets of Gwaine and magic, and Merlin loves him for it, though when his love became this uncomplicated thing he has no idea. “It’s fine.”

Arthur eats another couple of mouthfuls before speaking again, his voice unnaturally gentle and hesitant. “If you wish for decisions made yesterday to be unmade, in light of new information, it can be done.”

“Really, Arthur,” Merlin sighs, draining his goblet. “Hearing their names is not going to kill me.” Arthur’s eyes are doubtful, so Merlin continues just to prove his point. “Gwaine can do whatever he wants, and Montague deserves to have this opportunity.”

“Do you really expect me to believe you’re okay with this, Merlin? Because if you do, you’re more of a fool than you look.”

“No,” Merlin says, pushing his chair back and standing. Just for a moment, he lets his feelings run free, clouding his vision and colouring his voice. “No, I’m not okay with it. I’m hurt and I’m angry and quite a big part of me wishes that Percival hadn’t moved quite so quickly this morning, even if that did mean I’d be in serious trouble right now. I’m hurt, and I only have myself to blame for it.” He hides it all again, leaving only his hope on display, and sees the surprise and confusion in Arthur’s face. “Let Montague have a fair test, and if he passes it let him be a knight. As for Gwaine, he’ll come back when he’s ready. I can live without him until then.”

After a moment, Arthur nods, pushing the wine jug towards Merlin. “If anyone can, you will, Merlin.”

_No_ , Merlin thinks; there are more than a few men in Camelot capable of living without the one they love, and he will have to do it for far shorter a time than others have. He retakes his seat, smiling, and pours himself another drink.

X

At no point today would Merlin have expected to sleep well tonight, but he does, buried deep in blankets thicker than his own, a mattress soft and not at all scratchy. He sleeps, safe and warm and comfortable, content for the first time in months to dream and remember and _love_.

And when he wakes, hard and wanting, rather than ignoring it or resorting to guilty, furtive touches, he’s happy to take his time.

X

“May I?” a voice asks as Merlin gears up for yet another attempt at knife throwing (alone, today, since Arthur wants to put Lancelot through his paces before he fights Montague, after the months of him training Merlin almost exclusively). He turns, eyebrow raised in question, to see Montague standing by him with his left hand held out. Montague nods at the knife in Merlin’s own hand, beckoning, and Merlin hands it over, largely out of curiosity.

Montague holds it for a moment between thumb and forefinger, showing no inclination of wanting to throw it. “Good blades, these. Built for throwing, I take it?”

“You’d have to ask Arthur,” Merlin replies, shrugging. “As you can tell, I’m not exactly an expert.”

“Well, it’s certainly not force that’s an issue, although your aim leaves something to be desired.” He pauses, weighing the knife carefully, then glances over at the place the knights had been standing yesterday, noticeable for the blade still wedged in the fence. “Or so I thought, at least until you came looking for me.”

“Coincidence,” Merlin states firmly. “Pure coincidence.”

“Of course,” Montague smirks. “A well-timed accident.” He moves his arm to shoulder height, flicks his wrist, and the next thing Merlin knows the knife is smack-bang in the centre of the target. “Hmm. Wasn’t sure I could still do that. Ran with a troupe of performers a few years ago. If you didn’t earn your keep, you weren’t kept, and learning this was so much better than other things I could have found myself doing. Probably more showy than anything you’d want in a fight, but...I can help, if you want?”

Merlin wants to turn his offer down, but he doesn’t actually have any reason to do so. It was so much easier to hate Montague yesterday, when he was deliberately being a twat, gloating about sleeping with Gwaine and making insinuations about Merlin; now that he’s apologised, and is trying to offer his help, Merlin can’t really continue to do so. He doesn’t like it, but the part of him that is currently singing with jealousy is distant, distinct from the rest of him in the way he has taught it to be so that he could stay friends with Gwen knowing she had the thing he most wanted and could never have. “Yeah,” he says, picking up another knife from the neat row on the floor next to him. “Yeah, okay.”

He doesn’t say thank you, though; for all that he can’t make himself hate Montague, Merlin can’t bring himself to like him, either.

X

“Explain that to me?” Prince Arthur says, joining Lancelot in learning against the fence at the edge of the paddock. Lancelot does not move his gaze from Merlin, trying determinedly to hit the target; it seems he has taken them all at their word, and is approaching his training with newfound diligence. This in itself is not unexpected, but Montague offering to help is not something Lancelot had anticipated. That Merlin would say yes still seems entirely beyond the realm of possibility, even though the evidence is right before Lancelot’s eyes.

“If I could, I would, sire,” he replies. “Unfortunately, I am as clueless as you are.”

“I assume you can explain why half his face is purple, though?” Half, Lancelot thinks, is something of an exaggeration, although he is pleased to notice how delightfully the new colour of Montague’s face clashes with his hair. “Elyan asked him, before their fight.”

“Did he, now?” Lancelot asks; if Prince Arthur knew for certain, he would have said so, and while Lancelot is not remotely worried the prince will disapprove, he would quite like to know how Montague is explaining his recently acquired bruising.

Prince Arthur’s expression approaches a smile, likely in appreciation of Lancelot’s tacit admittance of his responsibility. “Yes. The reply was something about a deeply inappropriate remark based on false conclusions. What was it?”

Lancelot muses for a moment on the merits of answering Prince Arthur’s question honestly. His face, obviously, is at the top of the list – hearing that persons with only a passing acquaintance with the city assume that the prince is intimate with Merlin will likely prompt the same level of rage Lancelot felt, once Prince Arthur manages to process his shock – although seeing someone else hit Montague runs a close second. Sadly, though, Merlin probably will not like it; Lancelot has not yet worked out why Merlin is willingly socialising with Montague, but he does not want to ruin Merlin’s plan by having Montague removed from the city, dead or alive. Nor, for that matter, does he think Merlin will want it made public what Montague thought of him. “No, sire. I think it best you not know.”

“Are you protecting him, Sir Lancelot?” Arthur sneers, and Lancelot is reminded of the spoilt brat the prince used to be and can so readily become again when it seems those he expects unwavering loyalty from are not obeying him.

“Decidedly not, sire,” he returns. “I am concerned only with protecting Merlin, in much the same way you are.”

Lancelot had intended this remark to calm down the prince slightly, but it is rather less effective than he had hoped. “Protect Merlin from wha...you let Merlin speak to him, didn’t you?”

“I did _try_ to persuade him not to. And you know as well as I that no one allows Merlin to do anything.” Lancelot sighs, and resigns himself to recounting at least some of the conversation. “He wished to know how Gwaine was. The response was less than savoury.” An understatement, but Lancelot deems the details best left out of this; Merlin must have some ploy he has chosen not to share with him. “I hit him, Merlin threatened him with your hounds, we left. He followed, explained and apologised. Merlin heard him out, then offered him Pax.”

“Merlin offered him...?” Prince Arthur’s incredulity is a joy to watch, and Lancelot may possibly allow him to gawp a second or two more than necessary, but he cannot hold out too much longer than that.

“Your dog?” Arthur frowns, and Lancelot gives a disappointed shake of his head. “You named them, sire. Any misunderstandings are your own fault.”

He gets a grimace in response, somewhat better natured than the prince’s earlier sneer. “We all make mistakes,” he replies.

“Yes,” Lancelot mutters. “Some more serious than others. What will you do about this, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“Seeing as Merlin believes Montague should have a fair test, that is what I intend to do.” He switches from a scowl to a smile, and Lancelot anticipates his next words with something akin to glee. “You’re fighting him tomorrow. Please try not to leave any permanent damage, I want the chance to do some myself.”

“If that is what you wish, sire.” His only instruction is to try, after all, and he makes no promises about succeeding.

As one, they turn back to observing Merlin, hands hovering close to their swords. Fortunately, they have no real reason to draw them.

X

It takes a week for Montague to stop limping after he fights against Lancelot. Lancelot maintains it was merely an accident that his foot caught Montague’s in such a way that he tripped, his fall rivalling many of Merlin’s for the prize of most overly dramatic encounter with the ground.

Everyone important knows he is lying, but seeing as the only acknowledgement he gets of this fact is a single approving nod from Prince Arthur, Lancelot feels no need to confess.

X

“No,” Merlin says, darting backwards when Montague reaches to adjust the angle of his wrist several training sessions later, temporarily exempt from fighting against the others due to his minor leg injury. There is a familiar stirring in his stomach, and a pressure behind his eyes. He squeezes them closed for a second until it goes away, already planning to see Gaius yet again before getting Arthur his lunch. “ _No_. Don’t touch me.”

Montague looks back at him, hands held up in surrender. He doesn’t seem particularly upset or offended by this, more like it’s what he’d been expecting. “Sorry,” he says, nodding. “Sorry.”

X

“How is he?” Lancelot asks quietly – presumably, he thinks he’s being quiet enough that Merlin can’t hear him, but he’s wrong. Merlin doesn’t look up, continuing to scrub at the stubborn patch of soup he managed to spill on Arthur’s floor at lunchtime.

Arthur sighs, and there is a rustle of papers as he makes room for Lancelot to sit opposite him at the table. “Miserable,” he answers, just as quietly. “But then his lover is screwing around with random men. How else would you expect him to be?”

Merlin wonders if that is how they all see him and why, because he isn’t. He’s not happy, but there’s quite a difference between not being happy and being miserable. And he cannot explain all that without explaining his conviction, his faith in Gwaine, and that faith is fundamentally inexplicable. “He’s not my lover,” he says with a blush, taking the easy way out, his eyes still on the floor, _and he’s not screwing around_. Arthur wouldn’t understand that either; he doesn’t know that he understands it himself, but he’s certain of it. “He can do what he likes, I don’t really mind.” For now, anyway, and when Gwaine comes back Merlin will do anything it takes to fix things, because whatever he may have just said, Gwaine _is_ his.

“Add denial to that,” Arthur says, irritated and apparently giving up on keeping his voice down. “Are you still trying to get rid of that stain, _Mer_ lin?”

“It’s not going anywhere, _sire_. You can hardly blame me for that.”

“You’re the one who spilled it. I don’t see anyone else whose fault it can be.” Merlin looks up in time to see Arthur’s smirk. Not a cruel one, but the one he wears when he thinks Merlin is being an idiot and is just deciding to go along with it whilst also doing all he can to demonstrate his superiority.

Lancelot looks just a little appalled. “Sire, I do not think it-”

“It’s fine, Lancelot,” Merlin interrupts. “You know he means well.”

“Merlin!” Arthur snaps, not quite so jokingly. “Lancelot, will you get him out of here, please? Go for a walk or something, seeing as he isn’t going to clean properly.”

Lancelot nods, smiling. “Come on, Merlin. We should leave him to work in peace.”

Merlin stands and grins, moving his bucket and scrubbing brush to the side of the room. “Let’s go,” he says, choosing to swap Arthur’s careful watch for Lancelot’s, largely because Lancelot doesn’t want him to be working his arse off at the same time.

X

Arthur’s definition of a fair test does not match Merlin’s, although Merlin should really have known better than to expect it to.

As it is, he ends up attempting to lecture Arthur on the definition of _fair_ , to no avail. The prince lets him talk for fifteen minutes before grinning at him and saying, “He got his knighthood, didn’t he? He isn’t whining about fairness, and if you’re going to complain about anything it should really be the fact that he got in.”

Merlin holds his gaze as defiantly as he can. He knows that all this ridiculousness from Arthur and Lancelot has been some sort of attempt at protecting him – or avenging, maybe, he’s not quite sure which – and he’s pretty certain they know he thinks it’s unnecessary. “Everyone deserves to fight with us if they’re good enough. What does it matter who-what they’ve done?” Arthur smirks at his little slip; Merlin grimaces but doesn’t drop his eyes. He isn’t wrong, even if he sometimes struggles to keep his feelings out of the matter. “You’ll need to find someone else to bring you dinner tonight.”

“Will I?”

“You will, yes. We’re celebrating.”

“You’re celebra-” Arthur cuts off, then picks up again. “Merlin, you-” Merlin wonders if he’s capable of finishing a sentence, although he’s pretty sure he knows where this is going: Arthur doesn’t think he should be celebrating Montague’s appointment. And perhaps a part of Merlin hoped he’d fail miserably – even fatally, on some of his gloomier days – but it’s only a very small part, and he can live with it. “No. No, I give up. Enjoy yourself, Merlin.”

Arthur is still rolling his eyes and grumbling under his breath as Merlin slips from the room. The last thing he hears are the words, “Anyone would think you actually _like_ him.”

X

Lancelot really does not envy Gwaine. The reasons are multiple, of course, not least being the fact that it must be so much harder to have the one you love and let them go than it is to never have them at all. Today, however, his lack of envy stems from the fact that Merlin is drunk.

He has never been solely responsible for Merlin in this state before. He has helped, certainly, in the period between Gwaine and Merlin first sleeping together and their commencing whatever relationship it was that they had, when Gwaine did not trust himself to be close to an intoxicated Merlin without a chaperone (absurd, but Lancelot found it easier not to oppose his stubbornness). Since then, Merlin has rarely drunk all that much (nor, for that matter, did Gwaine, when he was here), and once Gwaine left Merlin stopped drinking with them altogether. He is only drinking tonight, rather than flirting, sobbing or trying to hurt everyone who cares about him, but Lancelot is not looking forward to helping him back to Gaius’ when the evening is over.

“Merlin, do you think you have had enough?” Lancelot asks, attempting to steer Merlin away from the fresh round of drinks on the table before them, and, failing that, steering the two unclaimed drinks away from Merlin.

“You’re such a killjoy, Sir Lancelot,” Montague says, taking one of the tankards from Lancelot and passing it to Merlin. “We’re celebrating. If Merlin wants to drink, let him.”

Lancelot frowns, wanting to intervene again, but Merlin is already grinning at Montague and slurping eagerly from his drink. It is all too much effort, and if Lancelot did not still feel responsible for Gwaine’s absence he would be leaving Merlin to his folly. As it is, he merely stands and observes as Merlin laughs at Montague’s jokes, close but never quite touching him.

“So hanging out with you guys is great and all,” Montague smirks, actually having the gall to clap Lancelot on the back as he does (although he at least has the good sense not to do the same to Merlin, as if he knows just what Lancelot will hurt him for). “I’d kind of like to end this evening with a lady-friend, though. Or man, I’m not that particular.”

Lancelot sees Merlin wince – it could almost be called a cringe, actually – and feels entirely justified in what he says next. Merlin may have expressed his disapproval at he and Prince Arthur for personally doing Montague harm, but it is hardly Lancelot’s fault if the man gets himself in trouble with other people. “I have heard the barmaids here are friendly,” he murmurs, low enough that Merlin, the person closest to them, cannot hear. “The brunette in particular. I seem to recall Gwaine saying her name is Beatrice.”

“And here I thought you didn’t like me, Lancelot.” Montague grins gratefully at him, then ambles away towards the bar.

“Where’s he going?” Elyan asks, looking between Merlin and Lancelot for an answer.

Merlin shrugs and takes another gulp of ale. “To get more drinks, I think,” Lancelot lies, feeling just a little proud.

X

“Lancelot?” Merlin says, slurring a little (perhaps Lancelot was right about him not needing another, but who really cares about that). “Where _did_ Montague go?” He isn’t all that sure why he’s asking, only that he left too long ago to have gone to get more drinks, and that Merlin has a slightly tipsy not-good feeling.

“Drinks, Merlin,” Lancelot tells him, and this time Merlin hears the untruth in his voice, maybe because he knows it’s a lie, maybe because Lancelot just doesn’t do as good a job of hiding it.

“He’d’ve been back by now,” Merlin argues. “And I can’t see him at the bar.”

“I do not see why you care,” Lancelot says, although he shuffles guiltily, not quite meeting Merlin’s eyes. “He is at the bar, anyway. You are just looking at the wrong end.”

Merlin scans along the bar, eyes flicking from face to face until he finds Montague and oh, that is not good. “Why does it look like he’s flirting with one of the barmaids?” He thinks back to Montague saying he was looking for someone to leave with, and Lancelot muttering something in his ear. Merlin had thought nothing of it then, too preoccupied with his drink and the fact that he hasn’t been here since Gwaine left, has never been here without Gwaine with him at all. Now, he’s putting the pieces together, and the picture he’s seeing is not something he’s happy about. “Lancelot, what did you say to him?”

“Nothing,” Lancelot replies, looking increasingly defensive as the seconds go by. “Nothing that isn’t true,” he amends, when Merlin doesn’t let him have that answer. He holds out a little longer, counting on Lancelot’s guilt and loyalty (to Merlin, if not to their newest knight) to make him finish explaining. Eventually, Lancelot sighs and says, “I told him the barmaids were friendly.”

It seems an innocuous enough statement, but given the context and the fact that Lancelot didn’t want to tell Merlin that, it was clearly intended as anything but. “Why would you do that?” Merlin asks, exasperated, and well aware of what Lancelot’s answer is going to be. Stupid idiots, the lot of them; Arthur, Lancelot, Gwaine, Merlin himself. Merlin grimaces and stands, figuring it’s up to him to sort this out before Montague gets beaten up and barred and then finally decides to call Lancelot out on his attitude problem.

“Merlin, where are you going?” Lancelot calls after him.

“To fix your mess,” he snaps, and even amidst everything he’s felt in the last month or there about, he is happy that for once the trouble isn’t his fault. “Are you going to help me, or are you going to sit here celebrating the fact that you’re hurting an innocent man?”

Lancelot stares a second, slightly pathetically. “Innocent? Merlin, you-”

Taking that as Lancelot opting for choice number two, Merlin leaves before he can finish; he’s heard the argument too many times already, and hearing it again is not going to change either of their minds. He heads towards Montague and the dark-haired barmaid first, but the brief snippet of conversation he overhears is enough for him to realise that Montague has worked out that this is a very bad idea and that the girl has no intention of letting him escape unpunished for whatever he may have said. Merlin isn’t going to be able to fix this on his own, and seeing as most of the knights haven’t noticed a problem and Lancelot has no desire to help him, he needs to look elsewhere. The only other person he can think of is Gwaine’s barmaid friend, Bonnie, who has in the past shown she doesn’t have the same objection to being flirted with that her rather volatile sisters do; Merlin can vaguely recall the idiot he made of himself that night so many months ago, and Gwaine filled in the gaps he wasn’t quite sure about the one time he felt brave enough to ask.

Merlin pushes through a clump of people and stands across the counter from the blonde barmaid and does his best to look beseeching. “Bonne,” he says, drawing her attention to him. “I kind of need your help, please?”

Bonnie smiles brightly at him. “What can I-”

“Merlin,” Lancelot says, appearing at Merlin’s left shoulder like the massive annoyance he’s taken great delight in being of late. “How about you leave the nice barmaid to do her job?”

“ _The nice barmaid_ has a name, Sir Lancelot.” Her tone is frosty in the extreme, and she turns back to Merlin before Lancelot has time to apologise (his intense patronisation was probably accidental, Merlin thinks, more meant to get Merlin to leave than to offend her). “What can I do for you, Merlin?”

“I need you to rescue someone from your sister.” He glances backwards over his shoulder to see Montague looking mildly terrified as the girl advances on him, increasingly angry. “We kind of forgot to explain the rules to him, and then someone” – glare – “actively encouraged this.”

“That someone should be the one to _rescue_ him, then. Anything that happens is your responsibility, and his, not mine.”

“Please, Bonnie. You can sort that out, please.” That was please twice, he realises, but maybe it’s best to be thorough; Montague might have said some terrible things that one time, but since then he’s been nothing but friendly and Merlin has to try help him out.

“No, Merlin,” she refuses, but she doesn’t sound quite so firm.

Merlin stares at her in what he’s sure is probably a slightly drunken way, thinking about how she is Gwaine’s friend and is therefore supposed to be his friend too by extension. Except to know that, she’d have to know that he and Gwaine were together before he left, and she doesn’t. Although, he’s pretty sure she may still want to...”I’ll tell you who Gwaine’s secret lover was, if you help?” he says, in an accidentally sing-song-y voice.

“Merlin,” Lancelot pipes up _again_ , close to his ear. “Merlin, think what you are saying. He is not worth it.”

“Shut it, Lancelot,” Merlin snaps. “If you hadn’t started this, I wouldn’t have to.” He turns back to Bonnie, painting a smile on his face. “So, what do you say?”

“No. If Sir Gwaine wanted me to know, he could have told me himself.” Her voice is cold, and her expression suggests she feels like she’s somehow betraying Gwaine’s confidences just by listening to this.

“Gwaine didn’t care who knew. It was m-the other person who wanted it kept secret.” And, looking back now, Merlin has no idea why. He was so scared of people knowing, of having to explain why he was with Gwaine when love wasn’t involved, given how emphatic he has been about the importance of it. Now, he mostly thinks he should have been honoured that someone cared about him so much rather than making Gwaine keep it quiet. “If he hadn’t been happy to tell people, I wouldn’t offer to tell you now. Please, Bonnie.”

“I don’t want to know,” she states, then softens slightly. “I’ll help you, but it’s just this once, and I want the three of you to leave once I have. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Merlin agrees, ignoring the fact that she is including Lancelot in this and that he should probably allow him the chance to speak for himself. But Lancelot hasn’t allowed Merlin the opportunity to make his own mind up since they found out about Gwaine sleeping with Montague, he and Arthur both so convinced that they know how Merlin should be feeling, and he just doesn’t. He doesn’t feel like they want him to, and he’s tired of trying to. If he wants to be friends with Montague, he can be, and everyone else will just have to learn to live with it. “Yes, that’s fine. We’ll go, thank you.”

Bonnie looks at him for a few seconds, during which Merlin tries to look honest and obedient, then heads off towards her sister and Montague pretty sharpish, a smile fixed on her face. Merlin follows, and Lancelot trails after them looking disgruntled.

“Bea,” she says, on reaching them. “Leave the poor boy alone.”

The sister turns from her prey to look at Bonnie. “What?”

“Whatever he’s said to you, I’m sure he’s sorry.” Montague nods rapidly in agreement, not taking his eyes from Bea (Beatrice? Merlin only bothered to remember Bonnie’s name because she is Gwaine’s friend; the other two seemed fairly unimportant, seeing as he so rarely went to the tavern). “Now let him go.”

“But it’s so _fun_ ,” Beatrice argues. “Did you see how wide his eyes got? And I didn’t even threaten to get father yet.”

“That won’t do anything,” Merlin says, though a glance at Montague’s face sort of suggests just the mention of involving parents in this discussion is frightening enough. “He doesn’t know who you are, or that he shouldn’t be propositioning you. Let him go, and we promise it won’t happen again.” The pluralisation of that promise sounds a little odd, but he’s willing to go with it if it gets them all out of this unharmed.

Beatrice huffs, frowns and murmurs, “Fine. Go. You’re no fun, Bonnie.”

Bonnie pats her consolingly on the shoulder and herds her away, rolling her eyes. “Thanks,” Merlin calls after them, then looks back at Montague. “Sorry, we really should have told you that wasn’t a good idea. Also, we’re temporarily barred, and should really go before things get any worse.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Montague replies. “Wasn’t your fault, Merlin.” Very nobly, he doesn’t mention that it is Lancelot’s fault, despite the fact that he’s standing just behind Merlin with what can only be described as a slightly guilty glare on his face. “Thank you,” he adds, smiling and continuing Merlin’s practice of ignoring Lancelot’s presence.

“You’re welcome. Now, out of here?” Merlin waits for him to nod, then weaves his way through the crowds in the tavern, waving at Percival when he happens to glance up as they near the door. He pauses in the street outside, surprised to catch himself yawning. “I don’t know about you,” he says, “But I’m beat. I’ll see you tomorrow at your first actual day of training.”

“Yeah, thanks for that as well, Merlin. I’ll pay you back some day, mate. Goodnight.”

Merlin grins at him, making his way towards Gwaine’s bedroom. Montague walks off in the opposite direction (he’s still staying at _The Rising Sun_ , and Merlin makes a note to get someone to sort out a room in the knights’ quarters for him), and Lancelot just stands there blinking at them as they leave him behind.

X

“Was it everything you expected it to be?” Merlin asks, as Montague joins him after what Merlin imagines was a fairly gruelling hour of drills lead by Arthur.

“Not quite. But then Prince Arthur doesn’t like me too much, really.” He looks remarkably unbothered by the fact that the man he only yesterday swore fealty to doesn’t like him, but then that had never worried Gwaine a whole lot either. Merlin supposes there are more than a few reasons to swear such an oath, and as long as Montague keeps it he has no reason to care why he made it. “And I saw you land that hit against Lancelot. Pretty impressive.”

Merlin smiles, more than a little proud, even if it was at least half down to luck. “It wasn’t too bad, yeah.” He’s pretty sure Lancelot didn’t go easy on him, as well, and there’s little like a victory (minor as that one was) to help prompt forgiveness. Not that it’s his forgiveness Lancelot should be seeking, but the chances of him apologising to Montague are not good. Merlin passes the knife he’s holding from one hand to the other, trying not to sound uncertain as he speaks. “You know how you offered to show me what I was doing wrong? Is it too late to accept?”

“No, it’s still good. Give me the knife?”

Merlin shakes his head, taking up the stance he’s gotten used to over his weeks of practice. “I meant actually show me, please.”

X

“That, Sir Lancelot?” Prince Arthur asks. “Can you explain that one?”

Lancelot wishes he could be derisive about the prince’s lack of understanding, but since he only worked it out himself yesterday, he cannot. “Yes,” he replies, watching as Montague stands behind Merlin, his hand on Merlin’s right arm as he repositions it slightly. “I believe they are friends, sire. What I am unable to explain is why.”

X

Gwaine is eavesdropping. He never really intended to, but he kind of is. Funny how things work out.

He comes downstairs to breakfast a week or so after the day he starts planning to go back to Camelot, not too long after Molly wakes him up (Wednesday, market day in the city, and seeing as he’s used to taking the morning off it seemed foolish to change things just because he’s training Gareth rather than being trained himself) and finds the kitchen door closed. The kitchen door is never closed, unless something is going on, a conversation that isn’t meant to be overheard. And seeing as he’s usually the last person downstairs for breakfast, they’re obviously talking about him. So, naturally, he listens.

“Aren’t you curious?” Gareth asks, sounding excessively emphatic. “Don’t you want to know where he’s been lately, whatever is it that he isn’t telling us?”

“Yes,” their mother replies, “but-”

“But this is how we find out. I’ve asked, you’ve hinted, and even Bertram has tried. He won’t tell us.” His voice is petulant for that last sentence, then brightens again. “It won’t hurt any to have Molly ask him.”

Gwaine wonders if Gareth really thinks that trick is going to work twice. He hadn’t anticipated Molly’s fake waterworks the first time, but now that he knows that’s a possibility he isn’t going to fall for it a second time. Clearly, though, Gareth expects it to, since he turns to Molly (or so Gwaine assumes, given his talking-to-a-small-child voice) and says, “When you ask for a story tonight, ask Uncle Gwaine to tell you one about himself.”

“No!” Rebekah interjects, and Gwaine imagines her face probably looks rather like it did with the _I’ll impale you with a wooden spoon if you don’t fix this right now_ incident. “I’m not having you involve my daughter in this, no matter how much we might want to know where Gwaine’s been.”

_We_? Gwaine thinks, slightly surprised; Rebekah is a lovely woman, but he hasn’t exactly done a whole lot to get to know her. A few conversations here and there, nothing telling, and Gwaine hadn’t realised she considered herself in the group of people worried about him or his background.

It’s only when he hears a floorboard creak behind him that Gwaine realises Bertram has been quiet during this whole discussion – remarkably quiet, given that Gareth is suggesting using Molly to find out Gwaine’s secrets. He has been quiet because he isn’t there.

Gwaine turns slowly, fully expecting an expression laden with disapproval. What he actually finds is a smile, kind and unaggressive. “We’re all worried, you know,” Bertram says, then corrects himself. “Well, they’re more worried than I am.”

“Why’s that?” Gwaine asks. Two months ago, he would have sworn he knew the answer. A month ago, he’d probably still have been pretty convinced. Today, he really isn’t sure.

“I’m not worried, little brother,” Bertram tells him, still kind but with an edge of sadness. “I’m not worried, because I already know.”

Gwaine laughs, even though he’s at least half sure that Bertram does know. Half sure, and it’s both horrible and a relief, because deciding to tell the truth is an awful lot easier than actually doing it. “Why haven’t you said anything, all those times Gareth or Ma has wondered?”

“I rather thought you were going to tell them yourself, soon.”

Gwaine nods, then shakes his head. “Was planning on it. But I can’t just come out with it. Ma...”

“Ma is stronger than we give her credit for being, Gwaine.” Bertram looks at him with a cool confidence, and Gwaine thinks of how he has always thought of his mother as one of the strongest people he’s ever known, and how shaken that belief has been since he came back. “Besides,” Bertram adds, “You’re not going to change your mind about leaving just because she might not approve of where you’re going.”

“ _Might not approve_?” Gwaine asks, mimicking his tone. “I seem to remember she was seriously opposed when Gareth suggested it.”

“Does that matter?” There is genuine curiosity in Bertram’s voice, probably why Gwaine actually considers it before answering.

_No_ , he thinks, slowly shaking his head. It didn’t matter too much when Gareth asked him for fighting lessons, and it matters even less now, when it’s his life. It’s his life, his home and his world, and not even his mother’s disapproval is going to keep him from Camelot now, when it’s time for him to leave. Tonight, he decides. He’ll start the story tonight. “Stay around this evening?” he asks, because this will be easier with someone there who already knows, although how much Bertram knows he isn’t sure.

“If you want,” Bertram agrees. “Now, breakfast?”

Gwaine nods, but stops Bertram before he can open the door to the kitchen when something occurs to him. “How did you know, anyway?”

“I didn’t,” Bertram smirks at him, for a second back to being the brother Gwaine remembers rather than the one he now knows he has. “I suspected, given your sword. I suppose there was a chance you’d stolen from a knight of Camelot, but I didn’t think even you could be that stupid. It wasn’t until you mentioned Ma not liking it that I knew for sure, though.”

“Bastard,” Gwaine mutters, fighting a smile for a moment before giving in, clapping Bertram on the back and heading towards breakfast.

X

“Merlin, where’s my red shirt?”

Merlin glances at the wardrobe, wondering why Arthur can’t just find his own clothing. It really isn’t all that difficult; everyone else he knows manages it. “Here,” he answers, rolling his eyes and digging it out of the cupboard.

Arthur looks dismissively at the shirt in Merlin’s hand. “No, the other red one.” There is no other red one, Merlin wants to say, but opts instead for making a pretence of searching. It is only when his head is buried in the wardrobe that Arthur says, “Merlin, Lancelot said you’re friends with Montague.”

“I am,” Merlin tells him. “I won’t talk about it, though.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Arthur mutters. “It doesn’t matter, this shirt will do.” This at least saves Merlin from having to make up some ridiculous excuse as to why he can’t locate the non-existent article of clothing, but really? Arthur is never normally quite this difficult.

“Is there something bothering you, Arthur?” Merlin closes the cupboard and leans against it, resigning himself to a conversation neither of them is all that keen on having and that will probably end with him being told to shut up more than once.

“No,” Arthur replies, but it lacks force. “It’s just...aren’t you jealous, or something?”

Merlin wonders just what part of his not being willing to discuss it was unclear, then answers anyway, figuring this will somehow lead in to whatever it is Arthur actually wants to talk about. “A little. It’d be worse if Gwaine had done it to hurt me. Or if he’d had feelings for him.” And even then, Merlin could have dealt with it. Not that he could have been friends with Montague like he’s friends with Gwen, but he could have been civil. He’s had years of practice at managing his jealousy, after all.

“What if he had? What if...say he loved someone, and that person loved him back. What would you have done then?”

The irony of discussing this with Arthur is so not lost on him. “Carried on,” Merlin says. “That’s kind of what you do.” This doesn’t seem to be the answer Arthur wants, given his frown, but Merlin doesn’t know what he does want. “Look, sire, we both know you don’t really want to talk about Gwaine and I, and this would probably be a whole lot easier on both of us if I knew what you were actually asking about.”

“It’s stupid,” Arthur says, sitting on the end of his bed and decidedly not looking at Merlin. “It’s just...Gwaine said something about Lancelot and Guinevere.” Merlin feels a moment of fear, but only a moment; even at his angriest, Gwaine wouldn’t have hurt either Lancelot or Arthur like that, and even if Merlin is wrong about that, if he’s putting more trust in Gwaine than he should (which he isn’t), there’s no way Arthur would have waited this long if he knew about Merlin catching Lancelot and Gwen kissing. “Does Lancelot still love her?”

That’s what Gwaine said, then, or at least the gist of it, and if only Merlin could get away with lying about this. But Arthur wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t have some idea of the answer, so Merlin will just have to be honest and hope that it’s good enough. “It’s not like it’s something he talks about,” he says sadly. “But yes, he does. She chose you, though.”

“I know,” Arthur replies. It doesn’t make him look any happier.

X

Merlin wakes on midwinter, opening the curtains to see a world covered in white. Not a lot, perhaps an inch, but it’s something, and it is beautiful.

It is beautiful, and it isn’t. No one sensible travels alone with snow on the ground, even if it’s only this much, unless they have a definite need to. Gwaine isn’t particularly sensible, but he’s too realistic to risk it; Merlin won’t be seeing him until spring comes.

It’s only when this fact sinks in that Merlin realises he’d still been hoping that Gwaine would be back soon.

X

“Once upon a time,” Gwaine begins, because that’s how all stories ought to begin, even his own. Bertram quirks an eyebrow at him, probably asking why Gwaine wanted him there if he wasn’t going to come clean, but he ignores it; Bertram will work it out as he continues. “Once upon a time, there was a man in a tavern. He wasn’t particularly a good man, but he wasn’t bad either. He liked to drink, and to fight, and to...well, let’s just say he did a lot of things he shouldn’t have done, things he isn’t proud of.”

Bertram looks less confused now, patient and understanding instead, and Gwaine finds it surprisingly easy to hold his gaze as he tells this. “But this day was different. This day, two men came into the tavern, one with blond hair, the other with dark. The man didn’t know it, when he stood up to help them in a fight, but this meeting was going to change his life.”

X

Of course, Merlin’s sadness is not the only consequence of the snowfall (because he is sad, now, no question about it). Uther declares it an act of sorcery and demands that Arthur find and execute the perpetrator.

It is the final push necessary for Arthur to accept what has been known for some time; the king is no longer fit to rule. With a pitying kindness that must be excruciating for one who has spent his life ruling by the fear of his people, Uther is convinced to abdicate the throne.

For three days, the city waits and prepares, getting steadily whiter. Arthur refuses to allow a feast in his honour, arguing that it will be better to wait until spring, when crops flourish and hunts are more successful, when there is no need to fear that their supplies won’t last until they are no longer required. There are still decoration to make and hang, though, celebrations to plan, and then a wait, on the behalf of the people, to see what sort of king Arthur will be.

Merlin isn’t waiting, or not for that, anyway. He already knows.

X

“You’re thinking about him again,” Montague says, the night before Arthur’s coronation, startling Merlin from his intense study of the bubbles at the top of his pint. The drink is much the safest thing for him to focus on, seeing as Lancelot is watching him like Gaius looks at those things he’s about to dissect – an intense curiosity about how something works and anticipation about finding out – and any time he accidentally catches Bonnie’s eye she is glaring at him; Merlin is not yet forgiven for being willing to share Gwaine’s secret. And looking at Bonnie makes Merlin think of Gwaine, as does Lancelot and his drink and Montague and...yes, suffice to say, Merlin is thinking about him.

“No, I’m not,” he lies. He thinks about Gwaine all the time, now that he knows it’s definitely going to be ages until he sees him.

“You are. Your eyes get all vacant when you think of him. More vacant than usual, anyway.” Montague grins teasingly at him, and Merlin finds his frown softening into something resembling a smile. “Tell me about him?” he asks. “If you want to, I mean.”

Merlin looks at the knights around him, all too busy with their own conversations to listen to his, and even if they weren’t the idea of people knowing isn’t the disaster he used to think it was. He’s glad to talk about him, anyway; apart from that one odd conversation in which Gwaine was only a stepping stone for what Arthur actually wanted to talk about, the prince has barely mentioned Gwaine in Merlin’s presence, and Lancelot is trying so hard not to annoy or upset Merlin again that he doesn’t say a whole lot of anything most of the time. He’s glad to talk about him, because that way he might miss him a little less. “Gwaine is...special,” he begins. It isn’t much of a description, on its own, but it’s a good place to start.

X

It is still dark when Gwaine wakes on Thursday. This in itself is not unusual; it being winter, his habit of running and training before breakfast often means he is up before the sun is. What is unusual is that he does not wake of his own free will.

There is someone in his room.

He doesn’t know how he knows it; the room is silent, and he can’t see anyone. It’s too dark for there to be shadows or silhouettes, since his fire has burnt down to glowing embers while he slept and whatever moonlight there may be outside is caught in the curtains. There is no evidence, but there’s definitely someone or something there, and calling out “Who is it?” seems like a really not good idea. A floorboard creaks and Gwaine sits up in his bed, pulling a knife from under his mattress and trying to decide which side the attack is mostly likely to come from.

There is a soft breath to his left and Gwaine twists, brandishing the knife, set to stab in the stomach whoever is sneaking around his room in the middle of the night.

“Unca Gwaine?” he hears, very quietly, and only just manages to turn his blade aside in time.

“Molly! What the fuck are you doing?” He squints as his eyes adjust to the dark, shuffling away as she scrambles up onto the bed next to him. “I so did not just say that,” he mutters, putting the knife on his bedside table and hoping desperately his niece doesn’t realise how close she just got to being dead. “It’s the middle of the night, love. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Look outside,” she chirps, poking his arm until he gets up and opens his curtains; the low level of light in his room gets a little brighter, enough so that when he turns from the view outside his window, heart sinking, he can see just how excited Molly is. “Isn’t it _bwilliant_?”

“Yeah, kid, it’s just fucking marvellous.” And that’s twice in only a couple of minutes, he knows, but godsfuckingdamnit inches of snow have fallen in the few hours since he went to sleep. The same night he tells – or starts to tell – where he’s been and what he’s been doing and why didn’t he just leave last week when he realised he was able to? “Why are you telling me about this, Molly? Why aren’t you annoy-waking your ma and da instead?”

“I twied. The door was locked.” Oh, because that was information he needed, wasn’t it? Not that Molly knows what a locked bedroom door means, but still. His day hasn’t even started yet, and it’s already set to be the worst he’s had in months.

“Okay then,” he says. “I’m going back to bed now, and I think you should as well.”

Her lower lip trembles at this and she whispers, “But it’s _snowing_.”

“I can see that, thanks. It’s still the middle of the night, and your Uncle Gwaine turns into an evil monster if he doesn’t get enough sleep.” It isn’t right to lie to small children, he’s sure, but he reckons Bertram would probably prefer that than Gwaine telling her to fuck off and leave him in peace, and it’s definitely better than him marching down the hall and interrupting his brother and sister-in-law in whatever it is that they’re doing so that they can deal with their child.

Molly crosses her arms in a supremely sulky way. “Unca Gawef said you used to help him make snowmen. I want a snowman.”

“I’ll make you one, then,” he promises. “In the morning, when it’s actually light outside.” When he can muster the energy to pretend the snow feels like anything other than a prison and that he doesn’t hate her just for being the one to point it out to him. “Will you let me sleep now?”

“Can I stay here?”

Gwaine sighs, expecting refusal will only lead to further argument; if he wants to sleep anytime soon, he’ll just have to let her stay. “Sure, kid. Whatever. Just be quiet, please.”

Rather than curling up under a heap of blankets – which Gwaine had sort of expected her response to be – she toddles over towards the door and reaches up for the door handle. “Thought you wanted to stay?” he asks, then kicks himself for it; she’d just been about to leave and he had to go and call her back.

“I need Wabbit,” she answers with conviction. “I can’t sleep without Wabbit.”

Gods be fucking good, Gwaine is never having children. _Never_.

X

Arthur kneels before Geoffrey, regal and beautiful, waiting for the crown to be placed upon his head. He says his words, pledging to serve the kingdom to the best of his ability, to protect his people from harm and to be worthy of their loyalty. He rises, turning to face the crowds packed into the hall to see this moment, a king coming into being, and smiles.

Merlin can’t distinguish his own voice from all the others cheering, and he finds he doesn’t really need to. In this moment, the king belongs to all of them, and even if a part of Merlin’s heart will always belong to Arthur, he sort of thinks there isn’t a person in the room who couldn’t say the same thing.

As Arthur wished, they forego the traditional feasting. The councillors argue, claiming that they cannot afford to look weak in the eyes of the other kingdoms, but Arthur stands firm; he will not risk his people’s well-being just because it may somehow reach neighbouring kingdoms that Camelot is currently rationing food, particularly seeing as a number of the lands closest to them are suffering from similar circumstances. Besides, the anti-feast campaign points out, even if they won’t be eating more than any sensible person should, it doesn’t mean they won’t be celebrating.

“Might I have this dance, my lady?” Merlin asks, grinning both at Gwen and at the irritated frown on Arthur’s face when she giggles and accepts. If Arthur is going to make Merlin dress like an idiot for his coronation, Merlin is going to take revenge however he can, and stealing away his new king’s wife-to-be for as many dances as possible seems an excellent place to start.

X

“Now that just isn’t meant to happen,” Sir Leon says. Lancelot peels his eyes away from Guinevere and Merlin to look at the senior knight, taking the goblet of wine offered to him, only to realise that Leon’s gaze is pointed in the same direction as his own was. “He shouldn’t be able to do that.”

Lancelot looks back to see Merlin twirling Gwen around the hall, in step with the music and the other dancers in the room. There is something almost elegant to it, in a way Lancelot cannot quite wrap his mind around, beyond the fact that it is distinctly not right. He finds it far easier – and far less likely to cause him a headache – to focus on Gwen, even if he knows he ought not to. She really does look beautiful tonight, dressed in what Lancelot can only assume is a new gown for the occasion, since he has never seen her wearing it before. Then again, she always looks beautiful.

“Still,” Sir Leon continues, cutting in on Lancelot’s thoughts (almost certainly for the best), “At least he looks slightly happier today.”

“Hmm,” Lancelot murmurs, glancing around to see if anyone is within listening distance. “He has not been all that bad. All things considered.” In truth, Lancelot is impressed Merlin is doing as well as he has been, although he has noticed a slight emotional downturn of late.

Leon looks sombre. “You weren’t here last winter. Merlin was...” Leon trails off, clearly hunting for the correct word with which to finish this sentence. His eyes lock on to something over Lancelot’s head. “Sire?”

Lancelot turns in time to see relief flicker across King Arthur’s face as he excuses himself from a conversation with an elderly lord and what Lancelot can only hope is the man’s daughter. “Thank you,” he mutters, joining Lancelot and Sir Leon. “If one more noble tries to introduce me to some female family member or other, I’m banning occasions like this. Feasts, festivals, miscellaneous days of import, I don’t care. They will be forbidden, on pain of death.” He sobers slightly, “I take it you weren’t just trying to rescue me from Lord Crinkle-face and the opinionless Miranda, though.”

“Lord Crinkle-face?” Lancelot asks, before his better judgement can intervene.

“You will both pretend you never heard that,” the king says sternly. “Lord Crickenbass. And one of you tell Merlin that I want him to...I don’t know, you think up something suitable, Sir Leon.”

Leon’s lips twitch. “Certainly, sire,” he agrees. “Speaking of Merlin, I was hoping you could better explain his actions this time last year for Sir Lancelot, who didn’t have the benefit of seeing them firsthand.”

“Anyone who can explain Merlin’s actions is a wiser man than I. Or possibly just gloriously insane, I’m not sure. The only time he’s ever made an attempt to wake me earlier than required is the first snowfall of the year, and he has suggested more than once that I include snowball fights in the knights’ winter training regime.” The smile fades from King Arthur’s face, and Lancelot anticipates the meaning of his next sentence, if not the actual words. “Of course, that was before. This year he’s been...well, for anyone else it’d be considered normal. On him, it’s...”

_Worrying_ , Lancelot’s mind fills in. If Gwaine were here he would have said it, and glared at the king until he agreed (or glared for a minute and then stormed off, as his patience invariably broke before Arthur’s did). But, Lancelot supposes, if Gwaine were here it would not need saying, since there would not be anything to worry about.

“Tell me,” Arthur says, with the air of a man musing aloud. Lancelot hopes that whatever follows will be something he can actually answer this time, something that does not require him to attempt to venture into the recesses of Merlin’s brain and explain some Montague-related interaction. “If you knew a way to make someone happy, would you do it, even though they told you not to?”

That is somewhat simpler to answer than any of the questions Arthur has put to him recently, Lancelot supposes. “I did,” he replies, picturing Gwaine’s face as he said that he understood but made no mention of forgiving. “It did not turn out like I thought it would.” His hand twitches of its own free will, but Lancelot stops it before it can get as far as the back of his head. There is nothing there, anyway; Merlin’s spell healed whatever damage he caused.

Both Sir Leon and King Arthur look at him expectantly, but he does not elaborate; Merlin told Arthur some time ago why things between he and Gwaine ended, and Sir Leon is more than intelligent enough to work it out from the evidence he already has, if he really wishes. There is no need for Lancelot to say anything more, which is fortunate, since he has absolutely no desire to do so.

“Hmm,” Arthur responds, eventually. “I’ll keep that in mind.” His eyes drift back to the dance floor, to Gwen and Merlin. “Who do you suppose taught him to dance that well? And, for that matter, how much gold would it cost to get them to teach him to fight too?”

X

Morning comes all too soon, and Gwaine finds himself in the middle of what can only be described as a menagerie.; it turns out that not only can his niece not sleep without Wabbit, she also requires Iger, Mister Bear, Lady Dolly, and a whole host of others Gwaine is sure he was introduced to but cannot remember the names of (although they are all equally unimaginative, he thinks, so he can probably make a good guess if he has to). Molly is nestled into his side, Wabbit clutched tightly in both hands, sleeping quite contentedly.

And he’d been hoping, right until the moment he opened his eyes, that the snow and almost murdering his niece had just been some hideous nightmare.

Getting up early today seems like a worthless endeavour; he won’t be training today, and seeing as Molly chose to invade his room to wake him somewhat earlier than usual, he might as well just stay where he is for however long it takes Bertram and Rebekah to discover their daughter is not where she should be. He sits, digging Mister Bear out from behind him, and stares out the window at the snow that is still falling, sliding his fingers through Molly’s hair when she fidgets; the longer she stays asleep, the longer it is before he has to pretend to be cheerful.

After a while, he hears doors opening and closing, and more than one set of hurried footsteps in the hall; Molly’s absence has been noticed, he assumes. This is confirmed when his door is opened – without knocking – and Bertram walks in. The look of panic on his face calms into one of relief, and he calls over his shoulder, “She’s here, it’s fine.” He closes the door, walking into the room and perching on the edge of Gwaine’s bed. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could avoid worrying us like that again?”

“Didn’t exactly ask for her to wake me in the middle of the night to tell me it’s snowing, did I?” Gwaine argues quietly. “If you and Rebekah hadn’t been busy with something requiring a locked door, it’d have been you she was irritating.”

Bertram winces, or something very close to it. “Sorry, then. Or maybe thank you.”

“It’s fine,” Gwaine grants, even though he isn’t sure it is. “Might have preferred it if she’d brought slightly less unpleasant news. Definitely have preferred it if there’d been fewer animals.” Molly stirs as he speaks and he lets his complaints drop. “Morning, kid,” he says as she blinks sleepily, eyes moving from Gwaine to Bertram. “Did you sleep well?” He makes himself smile at her, because no matter how tired and unhappy he is he doesn’t want to upset her as well.

“Good morning, Unca Gwaine. Good morning, Da.” She smiles and sits, practically buzzing with excitement. “It’s light now. Can we go play in the snow?”

Gwaine looks at Bertram, figuring he’s done his fair share of dealing with childish enthusiasm already today. “After breakfast,” Bertram answers, in a tone that doesn’t allow for argument. “Go find Ma and ask her to sort you out some warm clothes.” He waits for her to agree and leave – taking Wabbit with her but leaving a whole scattering of other creatures across Gwaine’s room – before speaking to Gwaine. “Aside from being woken horribly early, how are you? I know you wanted to leave soon.”

“I’ll live,” Gwaine tells him, knowing his smile is anything but happy. If he could muster the energy to care, he’d ask Bertram how he knew, or if it was just another good guess. As it is, he just repeats himself, getting up and looking for clothes suitable for making snowmen. “I’ll live.”

X

Lancelot is quite unhappily minding his own business in the library when King Arthur sends a page to summon him. The text on the table before him is an ancient thing, beautifully illuminated with the most horrific illustrations, and it confirms all the unpleasant truths the other books he has located and read about the suppression and control of natural powers have only hinted at. It is too old and too delicate a thing for Geoffrey to allow him to take it from the library, so Lancelot is scrawling notes as quickly as he can in order to speak first to Gaius and second to the king (because there is no point worrying Merlin about this, when the evidence Lancelot has discovered ought to be enough to make King Arthur see sense).

Needless to say, he is not happy about the interruption. He goes anyway, taking his papers with him and returning the book to its shelf, since it is not a subject he wishes people to know he is researching.

The page accompanies him all the way to the great hall, going so far as to announce his presence when he arrives, and Lancelot wonders if their new king finds all the pomp and circumstance as tedious as he does. He kneels, waiting for those in the room to be dismissed and for permission to rise before standing and approaching the throne. “Sire?” he asks, and cannot resist the impulse to continue, even though he really should; this is the king he is addressing, now. “I take it there is a reason for this summons, since I was actually rather busy with something.” He does not mention what, not yet, because it will sound more persuasive coming from Gaius, a man of medical and magical expertise, known for his impartiality, than it will from Lancelot, whose magical knowledge comes from a few books and who has sided with Merlin in this matter to a point most people consider insane.

“Of course, Sir Lancelot. I believe it is time I sent someone to retrieve Sir Gwaine.” It is unusual to hear the king call them by their titles, so used is Lancelot to the prince, who was always one of them and only resorted to such things as a way of expressing his disapproval or when decorum absolutely required him to.

“Why now, sire?” he asks, ignoring the prickle of discomfort he feels at questioning orders. “The weather is hardly conducive to travel.” The weather is the least of his reservations, but since it is also the least complex one to raise, it works as a solid starting place.

“I am to be married in a matter of weeks. It is only proper that my knights all be present.” The mask of authority drops a little to reveal a man Lancelot would probably still class as a friend, even if the burden of reigning has changed him (but then, both the reigning and the changes began long before he became king). “Officially, at least. In truth, I’m just tired of Merlin moping.”

Of course. This would be because of Merlin, and whatever realisations Merlin may have reached in the weeks since Montague arrived, Lancelot is not happy about this. “No, sire. I do not think we should place Merlin’s feelings above Gwaine’s. If he wanted to return, he would have done so by now. Besides, do you really think having Gwaine back in the city is going to help Merlin?”

The kings nods, considering his words, and Lancelot knows they are both thinking of how Merlin nearly impaled Montague when he heard what happened between he and Gwaine. Still, King Arthur sees fit not to agree. “Your concern for Gwaine’s feelings rather implies that you think he still has some, doesn’t it, Sir Lancelot? Tell me, before he left, would you have said Sir Gwaine loved Merlin?”

“Yes,” Lancelot says, no thought required. “Without a doubt, Gwaine loved him, at least as much as Merlin loves him in return.”

“And do you think his encounter with our newest knight is enough to rid him of his feelings?” The king holds Lancelot’s gaze, rigid and impassable.

Lancelot answers this with slightly more hesitance; he was with Merlin when he requested the details of Montague and Gwaine’s dalliance, and it certainly sounded like nothing more than a ridiculous, emotionless encounter, idiocy on Gwaine’s part and largely without blame on Montague’s, but he does not want to argue himself into a corner. “No. No, I do not. That does not mean I wish to tell Gwaine he is ordered back to the city for Merlin’s sake.” Nor does he think it wise to summon Gwaine back just to make Merlin feel better, and he is not entirely sure he thinks Merlin and Gwaine should resume their relationship when it ended so unpleasantly last time.

King Arthur’s face shutters again, hiding the friendliness that was present only a second ago. “I will order you if necessary, Sir Lancelot. Please don’t make me do so.”

Lancelot thinks about how hard it must be to go from being their friend to being their ruler, how unpleasant it must be for King Arthur to know that many of the men who were so recently his confidants are now required to obey him, and will likely do so unquestioningly. He thinks how quickly Arthur’s position has changed in his mind, how he has probably changed in all of their minds (but for Merlin and he is too busy looking morose and arguing with Gaius about the necessity of taking stronger potions to bicker with the king like he used to), and makes a decision. “I will go,” he says, trying to sound as much like he used to as possible, telling himself that he whilst the king has the power to execute him on a whim, he probably will not exercise it. “I will go, on one condition.”

Something lightens in King Arthur’s – no, Lancelot is going to try think of him as just Arthur, as a man and a friend rather than a ruler – stance, and he closes some of the respectfully large distance Lancelot has left between them. “You would give your king conditions?” he asks, his tone bordering on pleased.

“I would, sire,” Lancelot tells him, “And seeing as I am the only one who knows where Gwaine is, it seems you will have to accept it, too.”

“What condition?”

“Merlin. Allow him to stop taking his potion.” Lancelot would continue, stating what he has found out, dragging Arthur down to see the books he has located if necessary, but his intended words are cut off by Arthur’s laughter.

“Merlin stopped taking his potion weeks ago, Lancelot. I’ve no idea how many, but he certainly had his magic back the day Montague started training, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Lancelot remembers the incident very clearly, and had quite definitely noticed. Apparently, not only had he noticed the knife winging its way towards Montague’s crotch (Merlin’s magic has impeccable aim), he had noticed something that Arthur had not, namely the appalled look on Merlin’s face as he tried to work out what had just happened. “Merlin did not have his magic then. That happened through his potion, and almost the first thing he did afterwards was demand a stronger potion from Gaius. He has continued to do so at least once a week since then.”

“But...I was led to believe that potion blocked all magical powers.” Arthur frowns, and Lancelot imagines he is trying to work out just who is responsible for that piece of misadvice. “What is the point of him taking it if he can still use magic?”

“He cannot. Not intentionally, anyway. What breaks through is accidental, uncontrollable.” Lancelot produces the sheaf of papers he has brought with him from the library; they may be incomplete, thanks to the interruption this afternoon, but they list text names and page numbers alongside the quotes he has located, and seem ultimately more reliable than the spoken word. “Here. I have been researching, and...well, you ought to read it.”

Arthur takes the papers from him, flicking through quickly at first, then slower and slower, and Lancelot wonders if the same phrases jump out at him as jumped out at Lancelot. A Roman Centurion’s account of the spontaneous fires that regularly broke out around his party’s encampment, killing many before they realised it was due to the potions given to a druid in their custody, unfortunate enough to have natural magic. The young girl who chose to suppress her magic of her own free will, after an accident that left her brother badly injured, only for her to die of mysterious causes a matter of months later (an account supplemented by notes from Gaius, who believes the girl’s heart gave out, without the press of magic to keep it going). Most worrisome of all, the diaries of a High Priestess in a time when fear of magic was almost as high as it is now, who recorded in chilling detail her attempts at controlling the magic of her own people for their own safety. That one Lancelot copied large paragraphs from, word for word, rather than paraphrasing as he did the others.

“‘Over short term use’,” Arthur reads aloud, the creases on his forehead deepening with every word, “‘No negative effects have been observed, although patients may show an increase in power, sometimes temporary, sometimes not, as a result of the battle between their Gift and the externally imposed constraints upon it. With prolonged use, however, a number of consequences have been observed. The first signs that all is not well are the seemingly spontaneous magical occurrences, often triggered by strong emotions, rarely within the patient’s control.’ Lancelot, how long have you known this?”

“That, we have known for a couple of months. Most texts I found did not say a whole lot more than that, for reasons you will see if you continue reading.” He could explain it, of course, given how many times he has read through the Priestess’ diaries, hoping that there was another way of interpreting her words, but it is easier to let the king see it for himself. Easier, and there is always the possibility that Arthur will see something that Lancelot did not, a way in which keeping Merlin on his potion is not potentially disastrous for both Merlin and Camelot in general.

Arthur directs his frown outward at Lancelot for a moment, then returns to his reading. “‘I have not read of any accounts following this stage – for otherwise, I would never have tried it – most likely because those who have chosen to learn magic rarely develop the level of power necessary to break through the suppressant, and those with natural magic tend to die shortly afterwards, either as a result of the random outbursts of power exhibited or the actions of their captors.’“ Arthur stops, and the expression on his face can only be described as panic; Lancelot knows Arthur cares for Merlin in his unique and occasionally violent way, but it is reassuring to see actual evidence of that from time to time, to know that Merlin does not risk his life for a man who cares nothing for him. “Merlin could _die_ from this, and you didn’t see fit to tell me sooner?”

“I discovered these diaries only a few days ago and, unlike you, sire, I read them from start to finish without interruptions.” Lancelot sighs, contemplating offering an apology, but decides not to. “Do you really think I would have kept it from you if Merlin was in danger?”

“No,” Arthur says, and Lancelot blinks, then frowns considerably when he adds, “I’m sorry, Lancelot. I was already worried, and now this...‘None of those captors ever went further, once their prisoners began to demonstrate the continued ability to wield magic; I have. I offered my patients the choice of continued treatment or a cessation of it, and then, I regret to say, I honoured their wishes. Those who chose to regain the use of their powers were permitted to do so, with no harmful long term results. Those who did not were given stronger potions, as frequently as they deemed necessary. All seemed well, initially.’ Really, could this woman have written any more ominously?” Arthur asks, and his attempt at humour horrifies Lancelot. He would object, but Arthur continues before he can.

“‘After a month, during which patients requested stronger suppressants between two and five times, patients began to report magical outbursts when they were not in a state of heightened emotion. Not only were these instances entirely beyond the control of my patients, they were beyond any level of reasonable expectation. Whilst in some cases it was questionable, in others it was indubitable that their magic was acting completely independently of the patients’ wishes, desires and even whims. Needless to say, I ceased treatment immediately, but the damage was already done. On those whose magic demonstrated true independence, full control was never again achieved; the magic had become a distinct entity, in some cases going so far as to show signs of sentience.’ I need to see this woman’s diaries, _immediately_.”

Lancelot nods, accepting his notes when Arthur holds them out to him, and agrees, glad Arthur sees the importance of this issue. “Of course. You will need to accompany me to the library; Geoffrey would not allow me to bring something that old with me.”

X

“Very well, Lancelot,” Arthur states, closing the book on the table before him. “You have your deal. I will inform Merlin of the end of his punishment, and you will leave for Gwaine’s tomorrow morning.”

Lancelot does not smile, since his end of the bargain is not something he is happy with, but he has achieved what he wanted to. “Thank you, si- Arthur. Thank you, Arthur.”

“No,” Arthur replies. “From what you have told me, Merlin has taken the potion often enough that his magic has yet to become truly independent. If you hadn’t brought this to me now, though...well, thank you.” He pauses for a long moment, and Lancelot assumes this is a dismissal, returning the book to its place and beginning to head down the aisles of shelves towards the exit. He is most of the way down their row when Arthur calls him back. “Sir Lancelot, if...once you’ve ensured Gwaine’s return, if you wish not to come back immediately yourself...no questions will be asked.”

“I will leave at dawn,” Lancelot states, then resumes walking, determined not to show any reaction. He can accept their wedding, because he knows that being with Arthur will make Gwen happier than he ever could; whilst Lancelot may not love her any less than Arthur does, he is not the one she loves in return. He can accept it, in the confines of his own mind, but he will not willingly discuss it with anyone, let alone Arthur himself.

X

Merlin rummages through the jars and bottles on the table in Gaius’ workroom. He knows what he is looking for, knows every possible variant of the potion Gaius has ever produced, has them all memorised just in case there is a moment like this, when Gaius is not around and he can feel his magic thrumming under his skin, pushing, waiting to come out, the remnants of the potion still in his blood only just enough to hold it down. He knows what it is he is looking for, which is why he can say with absolute certainty that it is not there. Not the one he took this morning, or the one he swapped up from a couple of days ago, or even any of the weak pathetic ones that last no more than an hour by now but will be enough to keep his magic gone until he can find something stronger.

He doesn’t understand it. There was more than one vial of most of the variants this morning when he collected today’s dose from Gaius, complete with much disapproving tutting, but, fortunately, without any argument; Gaius only vocalises his objection when Merlin asks for something stronger, like he thinks Merlin is doing so needlessly. And he isn’t; he needs to keep taking it, whatever Lancelot and Gaius keep telling him. Not just because it is a command (that’s never featured too much in his decision processes, and it’s not like Arthur has really made overt mention of it in weeks) but because someone will get hurt. He’ll get all emotional about something, his magic will break through, and he will hurt someone, like he hurt Lancelot only this time it will be so much worse because he won’t be able to fix whatever damage he does.

Merlin _needs_ his potion. He needs it, he cannot find it, and he cannot leave here until he does. He’ll just have to wait, breathing deep, calming breaths, until Gaius gets back from wherever he is (probably trying to deal with Uther, who is not particularly happy about his removal from power and demonstrates this by hiding in his room and rejecting almost all offers of company). He’s not worried; Gaius will return soon, and as long as Merlin doesn’t panic, doesn’t get too angry or too upset or too happy, nothing bad will happen before then. And when Gaius is back, he can take another dose of potion and go back to being allowed to feel without worrying about it, at least for a few days.

He sits at the bench where he has eaten so many meals, told so many stories, and hatched however many hundreds of ridiculous plans that shouldn’t have worked but did. He sits and places his head in his hands, fingers tapping a slow, steady rhythm against his temples, focusing all his attention on the slight pressure of each beat.

He doesn’t fall asleep – he’s too tense for that, and slept well enough last night that he probably wouldn’t doze even if he wasn’t severely on edge – but his mind drifts, as it so often does, in the direction of spring, of the weather turning and travel becoming feasible again, of Gwaine coming back. Of Gwaine coming back to him.

It is dark outside before the sound of Gaius returning disturbs him from his thoughts. It is dark inside, for that matter, given that he has been too absorbed in his own daydreams to think of lighting candles or adding wood to the fire. Merlin blinks as the door opens, squinting in the gloom, and wishes it wasn’t quite so dim.

Which turns out to be something of a mistake; in the hours he has been waiting (definitely more than one, though how many more he isn’t sure), whatever was left of the control provided by his potion is gone. He wishes for light, and every single candle in the room sparks into life.

“Hmm,” Gaius says, placing a collection of empty vials on the table before turning to correct the disarray caused by Merlin’s search. “I do hope that was deliberate.”

“Not exactly,” Merlin answers. “I was...no, what? Why do you want it to be deliberate?” A deeply unpleasant thought dawns on him and he looks from where Gaius is peering at a tiny bottle of some kind of tincture, trying to put it back where it lives, to the vials just put down in front of him. They are a whole variety of shapes and sizes, all washed clean, but he pictures this one full of a sluggish brown concoction, that one containing something a deep grey-green colour that tastes even worse than it looks, a third with a freakishly unnatural blue gloop in it. “Those were mine, weren’t they? Why did you get rid of them?”

“Merlin, do not shout at me, please.” Merlin has rarely heard Gaius sound quite so old and tired; he knows he is not young, and hasn’t been for a lot of years, but he doesn’t act it. Or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t act as unstably as Uther does, and Merlin is mistaking sanity for something similar to youth. Either way, he feels a flush of guilt, and the candles dim around them (he hadn’t even noticed them flare up with his temper, and this is going to be hell to control until he gets more potion and doesn’t have to try anymore).

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean to. I just need more, and...why did you get rid of it?”

“Because you are becoming dependent on it,” Gaius states, not even giving Merlin time to fully process this statement before continuing. “I have wanted to for some time, but it was only today that the king saw sense and ordered their disposal.”

“Arthur...?” This doesn’t make any sense; Merlin is sort of under the impression that Arthur thinks he already has his magic back, given all the snide remarks about not doing his job _properly_ , but if he is actually making a point to issue orders about this, he must not. But even then, assuming Arthur has worked out that Merlin’s attack on Montague happened without his magic being free, surely he should still want Merlin’s magic to be controlled.

Gaius nods, and his relief is visible. “Yes. He stopped by early this afternoon, while you were busy with his horses. He told me to get rid of any remaining potions I had, to refuse entirely to make you more, and to tell you to take your supper to his room this evening along with his. He wishes to speak to you.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, not really thinking for a moment. “ _Oh_. Arthur wants me to have my magic back?”

“That was the gist of the matter, yes.” The relief hasn’t faded from his face, but it’s not joined with the exasperated patience that Merlin knows means Gaius thinks he’s being unnecessarily slow.

“Right.” He stands, hoping that he can make it in and out of the kitchen and up to Arthur’s room without anything blatantly magical happening; now that Arthur is king, there is not really the same intense need for secrecy, but Merlin would prefer Arthur’s first public judgement of a magic-user to involve a stranger and clearly be based on the merits of the case rather than on bonds of friendship. “I should go, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose.” And he will, even if he doesn’t have to stop by to collect his potion, not just because Gaius is the only one who can get close to really understanding anything to do with his magic but because he is, for all intents and purposes, family, and both Merlin’s relationship with Gwaine and the end of it have meant that he’s been neglecting that of late.

“Goodnight, Merlin,” Gaius replies, and then adds, as if to emphasise, Merlin’s thoughts, “I know you’ve been sleeping elsewhere for a while, but your old room is still here if you need it.”

“Thank you,” Merlin grins, though of course he doesn’t intend to take Gaius up on the offer, or at least not for a while. “Goodnight.”

Nothing too obvious happens on his way, and if candles flare up and then dim with his passing, no one he sees comments on it, so he assumes it’s only because he knows it’s happening that it seems so noticeable to him. He feels unbalanced, though, with the unfamiliarity of his magic humming inside him, and the idea that his magic could ever be unfamiliar would have been so ridiculous however many months ago it was that he was forced to give it up, but it is. It feels alien to have it flowing free under his skin, buzzing in his ears, not at all like the there-but-contained sensation it’s been when it has tried to break through the potion, and that one brief flash when it did.

It doesn’t feel like _his_ , and that thought is just about the most frightening he has ever had. It terrifies him, the idea that his magic isn’t his anymore. Or it would, if he let it, but he can’t afford to. Letting it scare him is equivalent to letting it go, and he needs to be in control.

He makes it to Arthur’s room without losing it, a plate in each hand, and turns his back to the door so that he can open it with his elbow, until it occurs to him that he doesn’t have to. If he can make candles burst into flame just by wishing it wasn’t quite so dark, he can open a door if he wants to, with this power that he doesn’t quite feel like he owns even though he does. Words won’t work, he thinks, not when it’s already so present, but intentions? He reaches out, as carefully as he can, focusing on making the door handle turn and...

Well, that wasn’t quite what he intended, he muses, as every door along the hallway springs open. He walks into Arthur’s room before anyone comes to investigate, kicking the door closed behind him and resolving to take small steps. _Very_ small steps.

“Your dinner, sire,” he says, placing their plates on the table and pretending not to be worried. He pours Arthur a goblet of wine and himself one of water; he knows how much of a lightweight he is, and now is really not the time for him to be drinking alcohol.

“Thank you.” Arthur sits and Merlin copies him. “I take it you spoke to Gaius before coming here?” Merlin rolls his eyes and very pointedly takes a mouthful of food rather than answering. Arthur nods, accepting his unspoken point. “Right. I had a conversation with Sir Lancelot earlier, about your magic. He has found information that leads him to believe your powers should no longer be suppressed, and I find myself agreeing with him.”

Merlin chooses to get straight to the point of that comment, because whatever has Arthur agreeing must be something important. “What information? We aren’t in danger, are we?” This is really, _really_ not good, when Merlin might have his magic but isn’t in full control. “Is it Morgana? Is she-” He stops, going back to focusing on his breathing rather than speaking, trying very hard not to panic more than he is. He reaches for his drink, feeling sparks run the length of his arm and stops; he once saw a tree explode when lightning hit it, a long time ago, and anything that feels like that cannot possibly mix well with liquids that might boil. _Breathe_ , he tells himself, just breathe, and it’ll all be fine, and maybe closing his eyes and trying to shut out the world for a second is a good idea, too.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks. “Is everything okay? No one is attacking us; Lancelot just found out something about the potion, but it’s not anything for you to worry about, I promise.” Merlin opens his eyes slowly, still concentrating on his breathing, and finds Arthur quite a bit closer than he’d been expecting to, kneeling next to Merlin. “Calm down,” his king says, voice soft and reassuring, looking straight into Merlin’s eyes. “Just calm down. You can control this.”

Merlin holds his gaze, feeling some of his distress fade. He should be able to deal with this, he knows; he has controlled his magic for years before now, with only the occasional mishap. Of course, his mishaps tend to be dramatic and bordering on disastrous, but...not helping, really not helping. “Yeah,” he manages after a moment, only a little shakily. “Yeah, I...sorry.”

“No, Lancelot said you might have some problems with control.” Arthur backs away again, returning to his own seat. “Continue eating, please. You’re worryingly thin.”

Merlin picks up his fork with the instruction, but pauses before he can go as far as loading it. He had thought he was done with people fussing about his eating habits when he stopped skipping meals, but apparently not. Gwaine was one thing – he obviously had his reasons – and Lancelot worries far too much, but Arthur joining in is not right. He holds the fork stationary for a minute until Arthur drops his eyes to Merlin’s plate, then takes a mouthful of his own dinner. “Yes, sire,” Merlin agrees, choosing to go along with it all rather than comment. He pokes at his food, uncertain, then reverts to their previous subject. “What if I can’t?” he blurts out.

“Can’t what?” Arthur replies, clearly just a little confused. “Can’t eat?”

“Control it. What if I can’t control my magic?” He bites his lip, sure Arthur isn’t the best person to talk to this about; reassurances aren’t really his thing, and if there’s anything Merlin needs now it’s reassurance. Then again, neither are tactful lies, so Merlin can pretty much count on Arthur to answer him honestly.

Arthur takes a gulp from his goblet, then pushes it towards Merlin to be refilled. “You can.”

“But-”

“No.” Arthur cuts across his words before he can repeat his worries, or explain how much stronger his magic feels. “You can control it, and you will.” He sounds so stern and so certain that Merlin is almost convinced. “I’m not worried,” he continues, smiling. “I see no reason for you to be, either.”

Merlin nods, slowly, something akin to comforted, given his conviction that Arthur isn’t prone to telling benevolent lies.

Arthur copies his gesture, and his serious expression disappears. “Nor do you have an excuse for this place being such a mess anymore. Tomorrow afternoon I expect you to be here cleaning, understand?”

That, Merlin is a whole lot more comfortable with; he knows how to deal with Arthur ordering him around far better than he knows how to handle his concern. “Certainly, sire. Is there anything else you would like to _request_ of me at this time?”

“There is, actually,” Arthur says, and Merlin can’t decide whether the king is ignoring his emphasis deliberately or if he genuinely didn’t notice it. “If you could find Sir Montague when we have finished eating and tell him I wish to see him.”

“I can try,” Merlin tells him, tucking into his food. “Why?” Arthur smiles at the question, showing no intention of answering, and Merlin sighs. “Fine, don’t tell me. Just try not to be too mean, please.”

The smile just grows, and Merlin regrets saying anything about it at all.

X

Lancelot checks the corridor in both directions before kneeling in front of the door to Gwaine’s room and examining the lock. He has not always lived a good, law-abiding life, and has developed a lot of skills he is pleased not to have a use for any longer. This, the ability to pick locks, he felt it necessary to learn after his almost fatally disastrous attempt to rescue Gwen years ago, although this is the first time he has actually had cause to put it into practice. Someone in the castle probably has a key – Lancelot suspects there are duplicates to most of the keys to these rooms – but he is not sure who, and would prefer people not to know what he is doing.

The lock does not open as quickly as he might like, but he manages it without anyone catching him, and takes a deep breath before opening the door, expecting to be attacked by something approximating three and a half months of dust. He is not; the room is clean, in a messy way. There is no dust, no dirt, just a whole lot of clothing scattered around and a very unmade bed, and whilst Lancelot knows Gwaine is not the most tidy of people, he had thought he would make some effort to leave his room in a less than terrible state. He glances back at the clothes on the floor, and realises that they are not Gwaine’s.

He had not known Merlin was sleeping here, and this adds a whole new realm to the reasons why Gwaine should not come back. This is not healthy, not Merlin’s dependence on Gwaine – continued into his absence, clearly – or Gwaine’s need to run whenever things get difficult, although in this case Lancelot is far more inclined to let him run and stay away as long as he feels he has to. Unfortunately, he has already agreed, so he should just get what he intended to and leave. Explanations can be provided by Arthur, since this is his absurd idea.

Lancelot digs a set of armour out of the cupboard, then has to remove a second mail shirt in order to compare the sizes of the two, since there is very little point in arriving at Gwaine’s without armour that actually fits him. He is not sure what else to take, if indeed there is anything; surely Gwaine would have taken everything he needs with him when he left, and Lancelot is only searching for his armour to allow for the pretence that he is being summoned as one of the knights rather than as Merlin’s...whatever he was.

This is such a bad idea.


	3. Chapter 3

When Lancelot enters the stables to choose a horse, he finds two things he was not expecting to. The first, the sight of King Arthur waiting for him, is awkward but not inexplicable. The second, Montague, also choosing a horse, a large cloth bag on his shoulder, is both.

“There you are, Sir Lancelot,” Arthur says, looking deeply relieved; Lancelot suspects the king has the same difficulty in refraining from punching Montague in the face that he himself occasionally does, and he has already had the joy of doing so once. “I’d begun to worry you’d changed your mind.”

“We had a deal, I believe. As long as you keep to your side of it, I will keep to mine, sire.” Arthur nods, smiling slightly, while Montague gapes at Lancelot’s lack of manners. “I was not expecting you to see me off, Arthur,” he continues. Montague looks even more astonished at him calling the king by his given name alone, which is most of the reason why he chose to do so. “I rather thought you had said everything that needed to be said.”

“I had. However, there is a slight change of plan I felt the need to inform you of.” Arthur moves away from Montague and the stable boys saddling their horses, his expression indicating even more clearly than his words that he expects Lancelot to follow him.

“I take it this change of plans has something to do with why he is here?” Lancelot asks when they stop walking.

“It does. I spoke to Merlin yesterday evening. His potion was already wearing off, and his control was...” Arthur trails off, and Lancelot worries, suddenly and horribly, that he was wrong, that he did not discover the information and present it to Arthur soon enough, that Merlin’s magic is now more of a danger than an asset. “He was in control,” Arthur says, and Lancelot realises his worry was probably visible. “He was, but it was tenuous. Worryingly so.”

“Did something...?” He cannot bring himself to finish the question; truthfully, he cannot even understand that he is asking it, only that he must.

Arthur shakes his head, and Lancelot lets out a relieved breath. “No, nothing happened. It was close, but he kept it together.” The king frowns and then continues, “Even so, I thought we should probably keep him away from people who don’t know. Montague especially; I know Merlin manages to spend time with him without seeming too upset, but the link to his emotions seems pretty strong. There’s a chance this friendship is just an act, and I don’t want Merlin to have to deal with hurting someone else.” Privately, Lancelot disagrees, but he does not say anything. Merlin is too forgiving for his own good, and Lancelot doubts that even with his natural amiability Merlin could have held up a pretence of cordiality for as long as he has. “I don’t know how he does it,” Arthur adds after a moment. “I know I certainly couldn’t.”

It is a supremely tactless thing for him to say, particularly since it was only yesterday that he offered to allow Lancelot to miss his wedding; clearly, Arthur knows how Lancelot feels. The tactlessness of his remark does nothing to lessen the surge of guilt that hits Lancelot, because the king is already spending so many of his days in the presence of a man with whom Guinevere has committed infidelity, even if a kiss in a corridor – one kiss, and never anything more – is a far cry from sleeping with her. He tries to ignore it, as he always does, and focuses on the issue at hand. “Are you sure that is wise?” he asks, finding it by far the most subtle way of implying that Arthur has found the only way to make this mad plan even more insane. “It will be hard enough to persuade Gwaine to come back if he does not want to. I hardly think taking Montague as well is going to make matters simpler.”

“Gwaine knew he wanted a knighthood. He’ll have to see him sooner or later, so it may as well be sooner. And it’s best that they not be in Merlin’s presence when he does so.” Arthur neglects to mention the fact that Gwaine did not know until after he slept with Montague, but then if Gwaine was in such a state two nights before then to get drunk enough to think very vocally – if indistinctly – blaming the then-prince of Camelot for the end of his relationship was a good idea, Lancelot is not entirely sure that knowledge would have made too much of a difference. The rest of Arthur’s thought is reasonably sound; Lancelot just has to hope that Gwaine has seen sense in the months since he left, and will be less opposed to the idea of returning than he was to that of staying.

“Of course,” Arthur continues, when Lancelot does not say anything, “If you wish to lose him in a snowdrift on the way to Gwaine’s home, I’m fairly sure no one will object too much.”

Lancelot laughs, although he suspects Arthur was at least a little serious in his suggestion. “If I can...” he replies, not expecting to sound quite as wistful as he does. He will not try it, because the other knights have befriended Montague with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and Merlin is more than just civil with him, regardless of what Arthur has decided is the case; beyond all logic, Merlin actually likes Montague, so even if Lancelot detests him he will not actively seek to harm the man. He has learnt that lesson already. “Might I make a suggestion before I go, sire?”

“Montague is leaving, Lancelot,” Arthur sighs. “If I had another reason to send him away, do you really think I’d be making you take him with you?”

“I do not suppose you would,” Lancelot assents, although he had wondered if Arthur had really thought about how dreadful an idea this was. Seeing as it seems he has, and that his concern for Merlin’s well-being has outweighed the stupidity of involving Montague in a mission to retrieve Gwaine, Lancelot will not protest it further. “I was actually going to suggest that you did not tell Merlin what I found out about his potion.” If anything is likely to knock Merlin’s belief in his control it will be the knowledge that he almost lost it entirely. Arthur nods, looking at him approvingly, and Lancelot smiles. “Is that everything, sire?”

“I believe so. Montague should have enough food for the two of you to reach Gwaine’s, I think, and there’s money in your saddlebags to buy whatever you can for the way back. Good luck, and if he is stubborn remind him of the conditions upon which I granted him permission to leave. He will know what I mean.” Frown lines wrinkle Arthur’s forehead for a moment, before he visibly forces himself to smile. “I need to go before Merlin wonders why I’m not in my room to shout at him for breakfast being late. Just...bring him back.” He claps Lancelot on the back and gives him a gentle shove in the direction of Montague and the horses, saddled and ready to go.

“I will,” Lancelot vows, knowing that he will keep his word, regardless of his personal misgivings about the matter. “Look after Merlin until we return.”

“Of course,” Arthur says. “Of course.”

X

Merlin is a little late to the cellar to which training has been temporarily relocated (it might still be horrifically cold down there, and the level of dust is more than a little worrisome, but it isn’t covered in half a foot of snow, so it definitely trumps the field), but he figures it doesn’t matter; Arthur ordered – though he called it a suggestion – him to sit and observe today instead of sparring with Lancelot. Merlin didn’t protest too much, because although the terrifying hum of his magic has faded overnight to a slight tingling, he doesn’t want to do anything that might make it or his temper flare up, and he invariably gets irritated at how bad he is at training. So he sits quietly, out of the way, trying not to wish he wasn’t quite so cold; accidentally setting himself on fire is so not part of his plans for the day.

“You’re not joining in today?” Gwen asks, sitting next to him and tugging her cloak tighter around her. Merlin shuffles over a little so that she can rest her back against the column beside him then puts his arm around her shoulder.

“No,” he replies as she shuffles in close to him. “Arthur said I shouldn’t. And he’s probably not wrong.”

“Well, your teachers aren’t here, and you probably couldn’t keep up with the real knights.” There is a moment, and Merlin knows what is going to follow. It’s not something Gwen does often, not now, but it’s still entertaining enough to let her run. “Not that you aren’t one of them, I mean. Well, obviously, you aren’t one of them, but you’re important anyway, and you’re getting better at fighting.” A second moment, and Merlin is quite glad she’s not looking at him, because he can keep himself from laughing out loud but hiding his grin is too much. “Oh, but you weren’t bad before. Not that bad. Okay, a little bad, but you’re still alive, when a lot of the knights...”

Merlin pats her shoulder when she stops talking, knowing precisely what it is that she means, but glad not to hear it. He’s seen Arthur when he and Merlin have been the only ones to make it back to the city alive and mostly unharmed, and he might not have any real fondness for most of the knights but each time one of them dies Arthur blames himself, like it’s his responsibility to keep them alive instead of the other way around. “I’m glad to stop,” he tells her. “It’s not that Lancelot isn’t a good teacher, but...I suck, don’t I? And it’s so much easier to use...you know, to defend myself.”

“You have it back?” Gwen pulls out of his arms, turning to look at him, and Merlin hates how wide her eyes are, that his first and for a long time closest friend in the city is scared of him. She wasn’t, before he hurt Lancelot, and he hates even more than he probably deserves it. “Is that why Arthur sent Lancelot away?”

“No, I...Arthur sent Lancelot away? Where?” Merlin glances across the cellar at all the knights. All of them together, today, rather than as the older knights and Arthur’s; Elyan is somewhere at the front of the group, and Merlin can make out Percival somewhere towards the back. Leon is there too, pacing through the group with Arthur, the pair of them pausing to correct the knights where necessary. Lancelot is not present, and nor, for that matter, is Montague, but then Gwen did say that his teachers – in the plural – were absent.

“I don’t know,” she says, still wary. “Are you safe to be around, Merlin? Is that why Montague is gone too?”

“I’m fine, Gwen,” Merlin tells her, trying not to be upset by her still staying out of arm’s reach of him. “I’m not going to hurt anyone. And is there anything Arthur doesn’t tell you?”

Gwen frowns at him in such a way that Merlin suspects that if she was standing up her arms would be folded and she’d be tapping her foot in disapproval. “He didn’t tell me why you attacked one of your best friends, or an almost total stranger a couple of months later.”

Merlin turns his eyes from Gwen to Arthur, wondering why he thinks telling Gwen secrets that could mean Merlin’s life if the wrong people hear them is okay but telling her about Merlin’s relationship with Gwaine isn’t. There is something definitely not right with Arthur’s thought processes, although that, of course, is not too much of a discovery. Nor is it the most pressing issue right now. “That’s not important,” he argues. “It’s not going to happen again, ever. I’m not going to let it.” He feels his skin prickle as he says it and wills himself to calm down, but Gwen’s expression of severe doubt makes something clear that means calmness right now is pretty much impossible; she thinks he did it deliberately. “I would never hurt Lancelot on purpose, Gwen. How can you think that?”

She stands and glares down at him. “Why wouldn’t I? What reason would they have to punish you if it was an accident? Arthur isn’t unreasonable; he wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t deserve it!”

“How about to appease your brother?” Merlin says, probably louder than he should, scrambling to his feet as well; he can’t have this conversation with her literally looking down on him as well as metaphorically. He might have almost been in agreement with Elyan back then, but by now he knows that while he might have deserved the loss of his magic for a few months, he didn’t deserve anything more than that. He was stupid and irresponsible and many other things, none of which meant he ought to be executed.

Gwen sniffs at him. “What does Elyan have to do with anything?”

“He thought I should be executed. Or did he not tell you that in all the conversations you two have had since then?” It is a little spiteful for him to use this against her, because he knows Elyan moved out of their home not a whole lot after that (he’s never asked why, and his friendship with Gwen is just another thing he’s neglected of late), but she actually thinks he’d use his magic to deliberately nearly kill one of his friends. It’s about all he can do to keep his temper in check right now, and the prickling is quickly becoming a bubbling sensation; he cannot possibly imagine his eyes are blue at the moment, particularly given how large a step Gwen takes away from him.

“Elyan wouldn’t,” she replies, tilting her chin up defiantly, even with how scared she looks. “Not with what happened to our father. He wouldn’t, if you hadn’t deserved it.”

“Ask him,” Merlin states, because if he stays bad things will happen. “I’ve hurt too many of my friends this year, Gwen, and I’ll never forgive myself if I add you to the list. Tell Arthur I’ll be in his room if he needs me.”

X

“What the fuck is that?” Gareth murmurs as Gwaine stands after putting the finishing touches to the third snowman he’s built this morning.

“I’m not the one who told her I was good at these, Gareth,” he snaps, possibly with a glare as well. “Let’s see you do better after being woken in the middle of the night by an over-excited four year old and then having to sleep surrounded by five hundred stuffed animals.”

“Wow, brother. Someone got out of the wrong side of bed today.” Gareth laughs, clearly joking, and some tiny part of Gwaine wants to smack the smile right off his face. It isn’t fair, because Gareth has no idea of his plans to leave and as a result there is no reason for him to have anticipated Gwaine’s mood, or for him to understand it.

“I didn’t have a whole lot of choice, given that the other side of my bed was full of small child,” he answers angrily, clenching and unclenching his fists, because even if shouting at his brother is unfair it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to. “And will you stop filling her head with fairy-tales about me, too? In case you didn’t notice, I’m not exactly a hero.”

Gareth kneels down, scraping together a large mound of snow, preparing to make his own snowman to add to the row. “So you say,” he murmurs, scooping the snow into a ball, then rolling it along the ground so that it grows. “Or so you say today, at least.” He looks up, holding Gwaine’s gaze, cheeks red from the cold and a grin on his face. “Yesterday evening you were telling us all how you saved Prince Arthur’s life a couple of times before you were banished from Camelot. I might not be as smart as Bertram is but I can work that much out, and it sounds kind of heroic to me.”

“I made that up,” Gwaine lies, loudly, because right now he doesn’t feel too much like being honest. Telling his family he’s a knight is his precursor to leaving, and seeing as he isn’t going anywhere for now he figures he can afford to leave it a little longer before seeing the admiration in their eyes. Admiration that he doesn’t deserve, because all the good he did in Camelot was born of a love of drinking and fighting, and all the damage he’s done only tips the balance further against him. “I lied, because I’d run out of stories to tell Molly and making shit up was better than telling her that and making her cry.”

He makes himself take a breath and lower his voice slightly, slumping to his knees to help Gareth push the ball of snow that will be the body of a fairly sizable snowman across the ground. “And, even if I didn’t make it up,” he adds after a moment, “It wouldn’t mean I deserve to be praised for it. It doesn’t make me a good person, and it doesn’t make up for any of the less good things I’ve done before or since then.”

Gareth scoops up a handful of snow and, even knowing what he’s about to do, Gwaine isn’t quick enough to dodge it (although, of course, dodging loose snow is a lot harder than when it’s compacted together). He shakes snow crystals from his hair, blinking as a little melts and trickles into his eyes.

“You’re an idiot, Gwaine,” Gareth says, collecting together a second handful as he stands. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I know that much.” He takes a step back from Gwaine, then a second, passing his newly built snowball from hand to hand; Gwaine stands, warily, because he knows the rules to this game whether or not he wants to play it, and if he stays where he is Gareth will just keep hitting him until he joins in. “You’re an idiot, but you’re my brother. I don’t need to know a whole lot more than that.”

He throws the snow while Gwaine is still staring at him, trying to work out just what the point of this whole conversation was, his own words included, then takes off running, not waiting to see if his snowball hits its target (it does), but glancing back over his shoulder to see if Gwaine is chasing him (he is).

X

They ride in silence for a long time, if by _they_ one means _Lancelot_ and by _in silence_ one means _silently_. Lancelot is silent, and most contentedly so; Montague seems to suffer from a complete and utterly irritating inability to shut up. He whines about the cold, wonders what Merlin is going to do at training without Lancelot there to teach him, declares how fortunate they are that it’s not currently snowing, asks how far Lancelot thinks they will be able to ride safely while dressed as knights. On and on and _on_ he goes.

It is barely midday when Lancelot begins seriously contemplating the merits of Arthur’s suggestion, and only a little after that when he starts searching for snowdrifts deep enough to implement it. Unfortunately, whilst the bare tree branches do nothing to stop the snow reaching the ground, their trunks do much to prevent the wind from blowing it into suitably large drifts, so by mid-afternoon Lancelot has to face the truth; if he wishes for peace on this unpleasant journey that can only end badly, he is going to have to ask for it.

“Sir Montague,” he begins, taking a leaf from Arthur’s book with the usage of the title as a means of creating distance, and a second from Merlin’s with the utter contempt he attempts to imbue it with. “Is there any chance you could cease speaking for the next two weeks or so?”

Montague’s irksome prattle stops as he chuckles. “Damn, Sir Lancelot, I was only trying to make conversation. I know you don’t like me all that much, but do you think you could pretend not to hate me? Just for however long it takes us to get back from wherever the hell it is we’re going, and then you can go back to indirectly trying to get me killed.”

Lancelot bites back a remark about how he was planning to try just such a pretence, given how much more mature than that he likes to think he is. There is a more interesting concern, anyway; he reins his horse to a halt and stares. “The king did not tell you where we are going?”

“No,” Montague replies, also stopping. “He just told me to be in the stables ready for a long journey this morning, with enough food for two. Given that he hates me just as much as you do, I wasn’t exactly going to ask him to explain more than that.”

“I do not hate you,” Lancelot says, largely as a result of some odd instinctive reaction. If he is truly honest with himself, it is not Montague he hates as much as it is the difficulties he is causing Merlin and Gwaine, but then the line distinguishing a person from his actions has always seemed a remarkably fine one to him. “I merely dislike you quite a lot,” he amends, because he is not happy with lying, particularly when he sees no real need to. “Merlin is just about my oldest friend, and Gwaine is...an idiot, mostly, but he is my friend, too, and it will be hard enough getting him back to the city without you there in the background reminding him of what he’s done since he left.”

Montague looks at him for a long moment with a level of focus that makes Lancelot deeply uncomfortable. “Explain one thing to me, Sir Lancelot, and then I’ll do my very best not to annoy you further.” His tone implies that his attempt will be doomed to failure, but Lancelot decides the possibility makes it worth trying it.

“You want to know why King Arthur is sending you to retrieve Gwaine?” he ventures, it seeming to be the most reasonable thing for Montague to be wondering.

Montague shakes his head and clicks his tongue to get his horse moving again. Lancelot copies him; it is far too cold to sit around stationary for too long. “Well, that’s one question,” Montague says, and his tone matches Lancelot’s when he asked Arthur about it, “But it’s not the one I was aiming for, actually. I want to know why I’m the bad guy here.”

“Why do you think you are the bad guy?” Lancelot asks, and it sounds appropriately contemptuous. “Merlin is very clearly important to us all, and you hurt him. He may have forgiven you for it, but that does not mean the rest of us have to.”

Montague widens his eyes in what is obviously mock surprise. “I had worked that much out for myself, Sir Lancelot. Perhaps a better way of phrasing it would be to ask why I’m the bad guy and Gwaine _isn’t_. Or does Camelot have some new kind of ethics whereby being banished gives a man permission to sleep with other people?”

_Ah_. That is a different matter, and not something Lancelot has any desire to explain. It is Merlin’s business, and Gwaine’s, and whilst Montague may have been in such a place at such a time as to find himself involved in it, Lancelot feels no need to give him any information Merlin chose not to. Of course, if the alternative is listening to Montague’s inane chatter for the next five days (they should arrive at Gwaine’s home shortly before nightfall on the fifth day, Lancelot believes, and he hopes Gwaine’s village will have somewhere they can spend the night, given that he is not at all sure that they will be welcome in his home, even assuming there is room for the pair of them) Lancelot can manage to share the basics.

“Gwaine might be an idiot,” he says, “But he would not do that. I do not think he has even seriously looked at another person since he and Merlin started their relationship. Not even when Merlin gave him permission.” Lancelot is still a little ashamed that his estimation of Gwaine’s character was low enough that this came as a surprise to him, although it is perhaps more honest to say that he underestimated the strength of Gwaine’s feelings; fidelity is not, he imagines, something that comes easily to people like Gwaine, if only through a lack of experience with it, and he had not imagined that Gwaine’s love for Merlin was strong enough that he would maintain it if he was not required to.

Montague lets out a startled noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “The same Merlin who nearly separated me from my favourite parts gave his lover permission to screw other people?”

“I never said Gwaine was the only idiot involved in this,” Lancelot points out, and knows it to be true; the number of stupid things Merlin has done over his months with Gwaine far outweighs that done by Gwaine. “There were circumstances, and Merlin regretted it as soon as he said it. And,” he adds, as far too much of an afterthought, “The incident with the knife was an accident.”

“Yes,” Montague agrees, “So people keep telling me. Repetition isn’t going to make me anymore likely to believe it.” He smirks at Lancelot like this statement is supposed to make him abandon the lie and confess. It is not the most plausible of untruths, perhaps, but it is a necessary one; honestly here is not an option, even if Lancelot had wanted it to be one, which he does not. “Okay, keep your silence. I’ll figure out how he did it soon enough.”

“You will not,” Lancelot replies, suddenly worried, for Merlin is not exactly spectacular at keeping his secret a secret. “If you value your life at all, you will not even try.”

He has essentially just confirmed Montague’s suspicions, and from his smirk Lancelot guesses that Montague knows that, but then they cannot really have required too much in the way of confirmation; a person would have to be extremely naive to believe Merlin’s exceptional ability to wield a knife in that moment was a coincidence. Montague will find out soon enough anyway, once Arthur lifts the ban on magic, but until then it is best to keep things that could end with Merlin’s execution between those few who can be trusted not to share them. “We were talking about Gwaine, anyway,” Lancelot says, trying to divert the conversation back to that topic; for all that it is awkward, it is not likely to have fatal consequences for anyone.

“Yes, we were,” Montague agrees, chuckling. “This is far more interesting, though. What secrets could innocent little Merlin possibly have that are worth threatening a man’s life to keep that way?”

“Ones that you do not need to know,” Lancelot states, content with the way the calmness of his voice borders on dangerous, “And will not be hearing from me.” Just in case his point is not entirely clear, Lancelot spurs his horse onwards, riding far enough ahead that he can no longer hear Montague’s words before slowing down to a more reasonable pace.

X

“Merlin,” Arthur says as he enters his room, “Could you explain to me why the hallway is full of candles, please?”

Merlin looks up from the candle on the floor in front of him – the only one left in the room – and considers feigning ignorance, just to see the look on Arthur’s face if he does so. Of course, Arthur will probably put it down to one of his many idiosyncrasies, the same way he did all the oddities that occurred in Merlin’s presence before he knew of his magic, and Merlin would prefer for his king to know how volatile his magic is now instead of being surprised by it later (although if he saw fit to send away Lancelot and Montague, he might already know). “I put them there, sire,” he answers, which makes Arthur look just as exasperated as if he’d lied.

“Believe it or not, _Mer_ lin, I hadn’t thought it the work of a very half-hearted thief. Would you care to tell me _why_ you put them there?”

“I didn’t want to light them all,” Merlin tells him, returning his attention to the candle and ignoring Arthur when he kneels on the floor opposite him.

The king manages to stay silent for all of half a minute before asking another question and distracting Merlin from his intense contemplation of his task. “Is that actually a risk? Because you don’t seem to be doing too well at lighting that one.”

“I wished it wasn’t quite so dark yesterday evening, not even out loud, and every candle in the room burst into flame.” Merlin flicks his eyes upwards, only to look back down almost immediately; Arthur is watching him just as closely as he’d been watching the candle, and Merlin is not at all comfortable with that level of scrutiny. “Do you think you could move back a little? You might be king now, but I reckon your father could probably still have me killed if I set your hair on fire.”

Arthur does move away, a little, smoothing a protective hand over his hair, then looking immediately embarrassed when he realises what he is doing. “Well, go on, then,” he says. “I’m waiting.”

“It’s not that simple,” Merlin snaps. “I haven’t used it in months; I can’t just wave my hand and expect it to do what I want.”

“Have you tried?”

Merlin is about to respond with a very sharp _no_ before launching into an explanation of how magic is a complicated thing and he doesn’t expect Arthur to understand any of it, until he realises how much like Gaius he would sound if he did so. And he never really believed it when Gaius has told him that – his magic has always been uncomplicated, doing the simple things he wants it to, and then there was always his book when he needed actual spells – so churning out that speech now would be a little hypocritical. He glares are Arthur instead, because he can’t say no without an explanation and he can’t explain without sounding obnoxiously superior.

“Merlin,” Arthur says kindly, and Merlin can’t detect a trace of his usual mannerisms, “I know I don’t know much about magic, but Gaius has told me you’re spectacularly powerful. The only thing keeping that candle from being lit is you thinking you can’t do it.”

Merlin has no response to give to this, beyond repetition. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is.” Arthur seems so absurdly confident as he says this, and Merlin has to wonder how that came to be. He has never really seemed to fear Merlin and his powers, hasn’t even been that angry at him for keeping it a secret except for when he first found out, but he has never placed all that much trust in it either. Merlin thinks it’s probably because he’s never actually seen what he can do, beyond small things, and being told is only so convincing. And yet now, Arthur is acting like Merlin’s magic is the only thing he could ever imagine believing in.

It is confidence-inspiring and terrifying in almost equally measures, because Merlin finds that with Arthur looking at him like that there is nothing he can do but try. He thinks _light_ , directing his magic at the candle, focusing it on reaching the wick and going no further, and adds a dramatic wave of his hand for Arthur’s benefit.

It turns out that Arthur is right; the candle flares, bright and beautiful, even more so because it was entirely within Merlin’s control. Arthur stands, laughing at the expression of surprise Merlin knows he must be wearing. “Told you so, didn’t I?” he smirks, patting Merlin on the shoulder. “Now, go get the rest of my candles back, and see what you can do about the mess in here.”

Merlin is too pleased to be annoyed, even as the list of chores grows to an absurd length. He obeys, mostly mindlessly, trying to reconcile the Arthur whose belief in him is powerful enough to make him believe in himself with the one who sends Lancelot and Montague from the city in order to keep them safe from him.

X

Lancelot doesn’t give Montague the chance to speak to him again until they stop that evening, riding on faster each time he catches up, as many times as it takes for him to learn to stay back.

The first words out of his mouth are, “I’m sorry.” Lancelot stops unbuckling his horse’s saddle to look at him, examining him for any signs that he is less than sincere; Montague certainly seems honest, and for all his flaws Lancelot has to concede that he is quick to apologise when he knows he has done something wrong. He does not flinch under Lancelot’s scrutiny, either, seemingly willing to wait as long as is necessary for Lancelot to make a decision.

Eventually, Lancelot nods, resuming his efforts to remove the saddle. He does not speak to him, and Montague does not say anything further, which is absolutely fine with Lancelot.

X

Over the course of dinner, Gwaine becomes increasingly aware of the looks his family keep sending him, anticipation and wariness fighting for control of their faces. He knows his behaviour hasn’t exactly been predictable today, but the only person to actually suffer from his bad mood has been Gareth, and his expression falls more on the eager side of things, which leads Gwaine to believe that their looks relate more to his story than his feelings.

Molly, obviously, just likes tales of handsome princes defeating evil, and Gwaine doubts she has worked out that any of his stories are true, much less that the most recent one involves him directly. Bertram knows that he returned to Camelot after being banished, and for all Gwaine knows he might have picked up on clues Gwaine didn’t even realise he was dropping about both why he went back and why he left. And Gareth and their ma know that something must have happened between his banishment and his return home, something big enough that he’d rather stay there for months without telling anyone why than leave and have to face it.

They all want to know how his story ends, he thinks, explaining their anticipation, and the wariness...Well, maybe they’re just waiting for the part of it that ends badly.

Either way, they aren’t hearing it tonight, not even when Molly climbs into his lap as they all sit in the living room and looks up at him with big, beseeching eyes. He shakes his head.

“Please,” she says, tugging his sleeve gently.

“Not tonight, love,” he murmurs, frowning at her when she scrunches up her face, trying to pre-empt her crying fit. “Your Uncle Gwaine is too tired, seeing as someone didn’t want to let him sleep last night.”

Her _I’ll cry if I don’t get what I want_ face morphs into one of childish guilt and she presses into his chest, folding her arms around him as much as she can. “Sowwy,” he hears, muffled and faint, and he has to hug her back.

“It’s okay,” Gwaine tells her, and finds himself making a promise that he isn’t all that sure about. “I’ll see if I can think of another one for tomorrow, love.”

Bertram looks at him approvingly, the only one who seems to have noticed the exchange between Gwaine and Molly. “Do you remember the year when we were children,” he says to the room as a whole, “And it was almost springtime before it snowed? We’d been waiting months for it, so many that we’d almost given up hope...”

He holds Gwaine’s eyes as he speaks, the same way Gwaine had held his when he told his story yesterday, and Gwaine understands why Bertram is drawing them all in with a memory decades old. They had all been so young, the three of them, bright and bold and innocent, desperately impatient for something they knew was going to happen but didn’t want to have to wait for.

That is Bertram’s message, he thinks; they all just need to wait. Winter will not last forever, and the snow starts melting as soon as it lands, but until Gwaine is free to travel on, he is not alone.

X

Elyan corners Merlin after training the following morning, somehow managing to herd him into a corner without Merlin realising what is happening.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says immediately, not because he’s worried but because he is. The whole mess was months ago, and he understood where Elyan was coming from; if he hadn’t been so mad at Gwen for thinking he’d hurt Lancelot on purpose, he would never even have told her about it.

“Exactly what I was going to say,” Elyan replies, not sounding at all like Merlin expected him to.

“What?” Merlin was anticipating being shouted at, or at least threatened in a quiet but still intimidating way (the cellar is still half full of knights, after all, so actual yelling isn’t really too much of an option). Being told that Elyan has trapped him in a mildly menacing manner in order to apologise to him is just odd.

Elyan is silent, and Merlin wills the torches closest to them to burn a little brighter, not so much that anyone else should notice, but enough that he can see Elyan’s face. He looks, for lack of a better word, sheepish. “I never actually said I was sorry for that,” he tells Merlin. “I was wrong. And whatever Gwen thinks, I know you wouldn’t hurt any of us on purpose.”

“Thanks,” Merlin says, finding himself grinning. “You don’t need to apologise, though. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything, either. It was just Gwe-” he stops; it being her brother he’s talking to, criticising Gwen is not particularly a good idea.

“She’s my sister, Merlin. I love her, but...she overreacts, sometimes, and I might have exaggerated the thing with Lancelot a bit when I first told her about it.” The sheepishness of Elyan’s face grows, but there is a seriousness to him that makes Merlin wonder how much he knows. But he can’t; Elyan wouldn’t let things go if he knew about Lancelot and Gwen. He is too noble, in a way Merlin and Gwaine aren’t. “She’ll listen if you explain it all to her, though.”

“Thanks,” Merlin repeats, not mentioning the fact that she isn’t the only one who thinks there’s something to worry about; Elyan has to have noticed that Lance and Montague are gone, but Merlin isn’t going to tell him why if he hasn’t already worked it out. “I’ll talk to her next time she’s here,” he grants, not entirely sure what he’ll say when he does. Then again, he probably doesn’t have to worry until Gwen shows sights of wanting to speak to him at training again, and with the way she ignored him today that looks set to be a while away.

“You’re not going to be joining us all anytime soon?” Elyan looks surprised, though Merlin has no idea why.

“I’m not exactly good,” he says. “It’s a fact; you don’t need to pretend otherwise. And with my magic back, I really don’t think I’ll be a whole lot better at it.” Elyan doesn’t react to this in any way, so Merlin figures he already knows; presumably, Arthur told them about him having his magic back yesterday after he’d left.

Elyan nods. “Well, if you change your mind, just say so. Although not now; the king looks kind of impatient.”

Merlin looks to his left at where Arthur had been standing with a few of the knights when Elyan had said he wanted to talk to Merlin. Now it’s just Arthur, leaning in the doorway with a glare on his face. He rolls his eyes, smiles at Elyan, and hurries off to find out what the list of tasks Arthur has for him today looks like.

X

It is a little after dusk on their fourth day of riding when they find somewhere to stop. They have made good time, Lancelot thinks, particularly with the weather being what it is, and should arrive tomorrow, probably mid-afternoon. That will, he hopes, give him enough time to persuade Gwaine to at least consider returning, so that they can be on their way at some point on the following day. Quite how he is going to go about persuading him, Lancelot is not sure, particularly with Montague there as well, but he will.

Only after they have arranged rooms for the night (two of them, and Lancelot has no qualms about using the crown’s money for such a purpose; he has no desire whatsoever to share, and he does not think Arthur will disapprove of what others may consider a needless expense) does Lancelot feel the need to break his silence for something beyond the most trivial statements about the time they will be leaving at in the morning or to announce that they are stopping to eat during the day. Just in case Montague is likely to misunderstand his intentions in speaking to him voluntarily, he begins as menacingly as he can (admittedly, not very; menacing is far more the forte of the other knights). “We should get there tomorrow,” he announces, “And I wish to make one thing clear before we do. You will not accuse Gwaine of anything, understand?”

“And what, exactly, would I be accusing him of?” Montague asks, making it perfectly apparent that Lancelot’s attempt at menacing has both been noted and entirely ineffective. “Beyond seriously misleading people with regards to his availability, I mean.”

Lancelot sighs, resigning himself to having the remainder of the conversation they began on the first day of their journey, despite the fact that they are in a moderately busy tavern in what is very close to the middle of nowhere. They have shed their uniforms, however, with the intention of putting them back on when they arrive at Gwaine’s home, and will not be recognisable as anything beyond two men having a mildly hostile discussion; he finds a seat, frowning, and gestures for Montague to do the same.

“Gwaine did not mislead anyone,” he states when they are both seated, trying to have this done with as simply as possible. “He was not banished from Camelot; whilst he did tell Arthur about the rationing, he left willingly when Merlin broke up with him. The banishment was a lie created when it appeared that King Uther was going to execute an innocent woman he suspected to have told Arthur.”

“Merlin broke up with him?” Incredulity stains Montague’s voice as much as it does his face, and Lancelot is not at all pleased to realise he knows him well enough to identify his emotions. “You expect me to believe that because...?”

“There were circumstances,” Lancelot tells him, aware that this is the second time he has used that as an explanation. Montague looks set to ask what they were, so he continues before he can. “You do not need to know any of the details if Merlin chose not to tell you.” It is not himself he is protecting with that sentence, or not just himself; Merlin’s magic, Gwaine’s hollow, heartbroken anger, Arthur’s blindness to how Merlin felt for him (Lancelot may be slow at times, but the combination of _Merlin loves someone else_ and Gwaine’s drunken accusations of blame were enough for him to work that much out). “You need know only that Gwaine was hurt, very hurt, and he left, with promises to come back when he was ready. Merlin forbade Arthur to summon him back before then, and he will not be happy that Arthur is doing so.”

“Merlin forbade it,” Montague repeats, without a hint of a question to it. Lancelot is fairly sure he hears him add, “And the pair of you wondered why I thought they were sleeping together,” under his breath, but he chooses to ignore it. “So you and Merlin tell the king that this isn’t a good idea, and he decides the best solution is to send me as well. Remind me again why I wanted to join a group of knights led by this man?”

“Arthur has his reasons,” Lancelot says; for all that he may agree with Montague about the utter absurdity that is this plan, he knows his words are true. It just remains to be seen whether the precautions Arthur has taken are necessary, and even then whether they cause more trouble than they avoid. “Regardless, Gwaine was free of any commitment to Merlin when he met you, so do not treat him like he has done something wrong.” He pauses for a moment, then amends this sentence, “It would be good if you did not speak to him about Merlin in general, actually.”

“Or I could just not speak at all,” Montague offers, voice sarcastic and more than a little angry.

Lancelot imitates Gaius’ sternness to the best of his ability. “That would certainly be best,” he agrees, then returns to pretending he is taking this journey alone.

X

“And then the handsome prince and the beautiful princess lived happily ever after,” Gwaine concludes, Mister Bear in one hand and Lady Dolly in the other, making them walk off merrily into a make-believe sunset together. Molly claps, grinning, and shuffles across the living room floor to wrap her arms around his neck. Gwaine, still sitting on the floor, hugs her back, pleased that he can mollify her for the third day in a row with fairy tales involving her favourite toys as characters rather than anything real.

“Why don’t all youw stowies end like that?” she asks, taking Lady Dolly from him and combing her fingers through the doll’s woollen hair (Gwaine is glad that’s not him, because he’s really quite fond of his hair, and he wants it to stay attached to his head, thank you very much).

“Because the rest of my stories are true,” he tells her, “And real stories don’t always end up happily.”

She looks him straight in the eyes, suddenly grumpy, and Gwaine thinks that that probably isn’t the sort of thing you’re supposed to tell four year olds. It’s one of the lies that’s supposed to be continued as long as possible, until kids grow old enough to realise for themselves that it’s not true, and he can only be grateful that none of his family were in the room to hear him (he likes his insides where they are, as well). And yet, when Molly speaks, she says only, “Maybe they just awen’t finished yet.”

He laughs, because the alternative is disabusing her of that notion, and maybe some dreams are worth holding on to. Even so, he knows how his story ends, because it already has, and neither he nor Merlin gets to stroll off into the sunset with the one they love like Molly’s imaginary prince and princess do.

The door creaks open before Gwaine has to find anything to say back to her, and Gareth pokes his head into the room. “I need to talk to you, Gwaine, _now_. You’ll be okay on your own for a bit, won’t you, Molly?”

Molly smiles and nods, so Gwaine stands, ruffling her hair, and joins Gareth in the hallway. “You need to go,” his brother says, quiet enough that Molly can’t hear them through the slightly open door, but very urgently. “Go get your stuff and leave.”

“What?” Gwaine asks, and doesn’t know what to follow it up with beyond the most obvious question. “Why?”

Gareth pushes him in the direction of the stairs. “You need to go,” he repeats. “I’m serious. There are knights in the kitchen looking for you. Ma’s keeping them busy, but she can’t do so endlessly, and you need to be far away before they work out what she’s doing.”

“Knights? Looking for me?” Repeating Gareth’s words doesn’t make him sound smart, but Gwaine is having difficulty making sense of it. “From Camelot?”

Gareth nods, and the tiny bit of hope that had been in his eyes flees. His tone is one of resignation as he asks, “So you know why they’re here, then?”

Gwaine shrugs, because whilst he might not know the specifics he can work out the gist of it; for one reason or another, he is required back in Camelot. He knew that this was a possibility, and because of the agreement he made with Arthur to get permission to leave, he knew that if someone showed up looking for him he’d have to go back with them, but he hadn’t thought Arthur would actually do it. That isn’t the problem, though, because he is more than willing to leave with whoever is here for him. But things must be bordering on terrible for Arthur to decide Gwaine’s presence is necessary enough to make the knights travel through weather like this, and...

Merlin.

That’s the best case scenario as a whole, isn’t it, even if it’s personally one of the worst things Gwaine can think of, that instead of there being something awful going on in Camelot, something awful has happened to Merlin.

Gwaine needs to talk to whoever it is, immediately.

He walks away while Gareth is still talking, heading not towards the stairs as his brother wants but towards the kitchen. It takes Gareth a moment to realise this, and then his words get increasingly concerned even as they get quieter, trailing after Gwaine like an overly protective guard dog. They are mere feet away from the kitchen door when Gareth grabs his arm, hard, and hisses, “What are you doing?”

Gwaine pulls his arm free and mutters, “I just want to see who it is,” because he should be able to gauge the severity of the issue by knowing who Arthur has sent after him. He could explain now that Gareth is worrying about nothing, but he’ll see that for himself soon enough, and the need to know what has happened is too immediate for Gwaine to wait just the few minutes it’ll take to explain.

He opens the door a crack, peering through the gap as he prepares himself to see whoever is there after so many months away, and there is Lance, sitting in his kitchen looking confused and more than a little uncomfortable as Gwaine’s ma bustles about making drinks and asking about the journey from Camelot. Gwaine is about to open the door the rest of the way and walk in, despite the fact that Gareth is once again trying very hard to pull him away, when a second red-cloaked person – Gareth had said there were knights to see him, after all, not just the one – moves into his line of sight to take one of the cups from his mother.

Gwaine freezes, trying to suck air into his lungs, but they remain resolutely airless and empty. He stops fighting, letting Gareth haul him away from the room, too busy battling the churning mess that is his stomach as he feels hands on every inch of his skin, hears breathing hot and heavy in his ear.

Gareth lets him go and stares at him, eyes wide with surprise and worry, but all Gwaine can see is other eyes, hundreds of them. Eyes that want him, eyes that hollow him out with their gazes until all that is left is shame and regret and that bitter kernel of self-hate that he cannot shake no matter what he does. The twisted feeling that he lives with, day after day after day, ignorable sometimes but still _there_ , telling him that he will never amount to anything, that he will never mean anything to anyone beyond the brief satisfaction he can give them, that he will never be worth more than the lustful glances of strangers and a few honest victories from battles fought for all the wrong reasons.

He runs.

X

Lancelot has been arguing with the young man who let them into the house (technically, he opened the door to them, stared for a moment, and then shouted loudly for his mother before leaving them standing blankly in the door way, but Lancelot is not going to quibble over details) for more than a short while. The man – Gareth, barely more than a boy, really – seems more than a little angry at them, and is stubbornly determined not to tell them where Gwaine is. If it were not for the fact that his mother is clearly the lady of the house, Lancelot would suspect him of being Gwaine’s brother.

It is a complication he had not foreseen, that they would arrive at Gwaine’s house and not find him; it is Gwaine’s house, of that Lancelot is certain, since they have not denied knowing him, only maintained that he is not there. Gareth’s mother, a Lady Anna, has been polite, inviting them in for a drink and settling them in the kitchen before vanishing, leaving them in the care of her son, who has spent the time since then frowning and pretending not to know where Gwaine is.

“Will you please tell us where he is?” Lancelot tries again, doubting the efficacy of doing so. He swore to King Arthur that he would retrieve Gwaine, though, and he is obliged to keep his word.

“Where who is?” another voice asks from the doorway behind Lancelot. “No, don’t bother answering that. Bertram.” The new man walks into the kitchen and holds his hand out to Lancelot, who shakes it, relieved to meet someone who seems slightly less reluctant to help.

“Sir Lancelot. This is Sir Montague. We are looking for Gwaine.” Given Bertram’s statement – and who is he, anyway? Another son, Lancelot assumes, since he walks with a confidence not common to servants, but then what is Gwaine to these people that they would lie to protect him? – the explanation for their presence is probably not necessary, but Lancelot provides it anyway.

“I think you missed something from that sentence, _Sir_ Lancelot,” Bertram replies. There is only one thing that Lancelot can assume he means, particularly when he notes the deliberate emphasis on Lancelot’s title, and yet Lancelot had been so sure that Gwaine would not have told anyone of his knighthood. The behaviour of both Gareth and Lady Anna had seemed confirmation of his belief, and yet Bertram seems to be implying otherwise.

“You know what he is?” Lancelot asks, catching a frown on Montague’s face. It is an odd phrasing, he supposes, but he intends to respect Gwaine’s wish to keep his knighthood a secret, at least until Gwaine has the chance to reveal it himself if he so chooses.

Bertram nods. “I do. As his evasiveness has probably told you, Gareth doesn’t.”

“In that case,” Lancelot argues, seeing a way of resolving this difficult conversation, “You will not have the same objection to telling us where he is.”

He receives a smile in response. “I don’t have any objection at all. If I knew where he was, I’d happily tell you. Gareth?”

“Bertram!” Gareth’s answer to this is some combination of a whine and a shout. “I thought you were getting on with him better this time! Why would you just tell them where he is?” Gareth stands and turns a furious expression on Bertram. “Whatever Gwaine is, whatever you _know_ , he’s our _brother_! You can’t just turn him over to them.”

Lancelot reels a little bit, temporarily struck dumb, and Montague speaks for the first time in quite a long while – clearly, despite his displeasure, he has decided to obey Lancelot’s request for him to stay silent. “You’re his brothers?”

“Yes,” Bertram states, simple but with an edge of impatience. “I take it he didn’t mention either of us, for all the months he was with you.”

“No. Family is not a common topic, given that most of us do not have one. Nor are we of noble birth, which is more of a surprise.” The idea that Gwaine could have been granted a knighthood under Uther’s rule without the need of exceedingly extenuating circumstances to justify it is a little hard to grasp; of everyone Lancelot has met in his life, there are few people who less embody the rigidly superior sentiments typical to those born entitled than Gwaine does.

“He hasn’t been exactly forthcoming about you all, either. Some of us are just better at putting the pieces together than others,” Bertram casts a look at Gareth, an edge of derision in his tone. “You wanted to join the knights of Camelot, little brother? You’ve been taught by one of them for weeks.”

Gareth just gawps at this, and Lancelot draws another line of resemblance between he and Gwaine in their expressions of confused surprise; Gwaine had looked exactly the same when he found out that Merlin is a sorcerer. “Gwaine is a knight? Gwaine?” His words are none too original, either, and if it were not such a serious situation Lancelot would laugh.

“There are days when Prince Arthur thought the same thing, I’m sure,” Bertram says, and Lancelot actually does laugh a little then. “Now that that’s resolved, though, you can tell us all where he’s gone, because I’m guessing there’s a pretty good reason why there are more knights than normal sitting in our kitchen.”

Gareth appears to still be processing this information, but he answers the question nonetheless. “You’re not going to be happy about this, but I actually don’t know. I went to tell him there were two knights here for him, thinking he’d done something...Gwaine-like. He insisted on coming here instead of packing up and going like I thought he would, looking all kinds of serious – weirdly serious, even by a normal person’s standards. He got a good look in here without them seeing, and ran.”

“Did he now?” Bertram asks, holding Gareth’s eyes for a long moment. The younger man looks back at him, mulish determination on his face; Lancelot notes again his resemblance to Gwaine, although he has yet to observe too many similarities between Gwaine and his older brother. “Why would that be?” he says, directing this at Lancelot, apparently convinced that Gareth is telling the truth.

Lancelot frowns, uncertain; why is he anymore likely to know why Gwaine would flee at the sight of them than his brothers are? “Things didn’t end well in Camelot,” he ventures. “Gwaine was...well, he has good reason not to want to go back. He may have worked out that we were here to retrieve him?” That sentence ends as a question, largely because Bertram is shaking his head at it.

“No, he’s been planning to go back for a week or two. This is something else.” He sounds spectacularly confident as he speaks.

Lancelot frowns. There is the possibility that Gwaine decided he did not want to see Lancelot, but he had not seemed all that angry at him before he left; he was not happy, certainly, but not angry enough to flee on seeing him. And even if Gwaine had been unwilling to see him after the mess Lancelot made for him, surely he would at least find out why they were there. Then, of course, he realises. _They._

Lancelot knew he should have sent Montague to the stables with the boy Lady Anna asked to see to their horses, but he was stupid enough to let Gwaine’s mother hustle them into the house before trying to explain. Then again, he had not expected Gwaine to sneak around his own home looking for them, or for Gwaine’s family to be quite so determined to keep him hidden.

“Yeah, this one’s on me, Lancelot,” Montague states. There is a nervous hesitation to his voice that Lancelot associates with his behaviour around Merlin, and to his great surprise he finds himself feeling a little sorry for him. He does not like it. “I, er, met him on his way here, and...well, it was probably me he had the problem with seeing again.”

Bertram looks from Lancelot’s expression of understanding to Montague’s worried one. “Yes,” he says slowly. “Yes, you I think he did mention.”

A feeling of horror dawns on Lancelot. If Gwaine has made mention of Montague but not anything else, it may not have been the nothing they all believe it was, and how on earth is he supposed to explain any of this to King Arthur when he returns without Gwaine? How is he supposed to explain it to _Merlin_ , who he has seen destroyed enough times lately? Montague looks no less horrified, but his voice rings with scepticism when he answers. “I highly doubt that. I wasn’t one of the knights then. I only met him briefly, and we did _not_ part on good terms.”

“No, I gathered that,” Bertram agrees, seemingly oblivious to how poorly Lancelot is taking this news. “If I’m not wrong, you’re the mistake he mentioned when I asked him about his behaviour not long after he got here. The only thing he specifically told me, actually, other than that he’d spent some time in Camelot, was that he’d made a mistake.”

There are no words for how glad Lancelot is to hear that, none whatsoever, but the mystery of Gwaine’s current location is still unresolved. “That is excellent news,” he says, not concerned about how Montague will take that statement (though a glance in the other knight’s direction shows that he is nodding in emphatic agreement). “However, it brings us no closer to knowing where Gwaine is.”

“Oh, I think it does,” Bertram mutters, then raises his voice to a normal level. “Gareth, see to it that two rooms are made up for Sir Lancelot and Sir Montague. Do so quietly, please, since Molly should be in bed by now, and then tell Mother we shall have two guests for breakfast.” He looks back at Lancelot and Montague for a few seconds, and Lancelot imagines he’s trying to decide what to do with them. “Sir Lancelot, if you would help me get Gwaine back to the house, please, since I imagine he will require more support than I alone can provide. And Sir Montague, if you could stay out of the way until we make sure Gwaine isn’t going to disappear again.”

His orders given (even if they came in the form of requests, Lancelot has no doubts about their true nature), Bertram turns and leaves the room. Gareth blinks momentarily then stands. “You’ll want to follow him,” he says. “Bertram isn’t too big on waiting around.”

Lancelot, not sure where it is they are going to get Gwaine back from, places his long empty mug on the table and rises to hurry after Gwaine’s brother, resolutely not glancing back to see how Montague is taking this.

X

Gwaine sits with his head down, resting on his folded forearms, trying to stop the world spinning. If it would just stay still, just for a second, he might be able to remember why he’s here rather than at the house. He’s sure there’s a good reason he’s just drunk away the last of the gold he brought with him, but he doesn’t know what it is. Which, actually, might be the reason, or part of it, and certainly a sign that he’s succeeded in something.

“I might have known,” he hears, and the voice is familiar enough that he should be able to place it. “Has he done this a lot while he has been here?”

“No,” Bertram replies; Gwaine wonders – with great difficulty – how he knows his brother but not whoever else is there. “No, this is the first time.” Gwaine feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking it gently, and he really, really wishes it wouldn’t.

“Come on, Gwaine,” the other voice says. “Let’s get you home.”

“No,” Gwaine mumbles, the word mostly muffled by the way his face is smushed against the table. He has placed the voice now, and he can’t go home with Lancelot like this. Merlin cannot see him like this, not when he’s drunk and ashamed and pitiful. Merlin is only allowed to see him if he’s strong, if he’s surviving without him. “No, no home. No him.”

“Not home, Gwaine,” Bertram murmurs. Gwaine twists his head to look at him, fighting the nausea this causes, and finds Bertram sitting in the seat beside him, looking at him all compassionate and unexpected. “We don’t want you to go home just now. Lancelot misspoke; we just think you should come back to the house, okay?” Gwaine blinks blearily at him, trying to work out why Bertram and Lancelot are together when they aren’t supposed to know each other. “He isn’t there, don’t worry.”

“That might not be a good idea, Bertram,” Lancelot says, and if Gwaine wasn’t still reeling from the last time he moved his head he’d turn to look at him as Bertram is doing, staring over Gwaine’s head the same way he’s seen his family talking over Molly like she’s not there. “He’ll only see him tomorrow.”

“Not Montague,” Bertram replies, and Gwaine flinches a little at the name. Something fills in a few of the blanks in his mind: Lancelot in his kitchen looking for him, Montague as a knight, the sinking feeling that alcohol can only numb for a little while. “He means the one in Camelot, Prince Arthur’s servant.”

“You know about Merlin as well?” Lancelot sounds shocked. Gwaine is no less surprised, for that matter; he’s never mentioned Merlin’s name, he’s sure, and the fog in his mind isn’t enough that he could be wrong about that.

“Not by name.” Bertram confirms. “I just knew that there was someone.” He looks back at Gwaine, the hand that had shaken his shoulder earlier now patting it gently. “Merlin isn’t here, Gwaine. He isn’t going to see you, don’t worry.”

“Promise?” Gwaine manages, and maybe he deserved to have Lancelot and Bertram talking over him like a kid because that is exactly how he sounds, like a child in desperate need of reassurance.

“I promise,” Bertram agrees, nodding gravely. “Now, let’s try get you to bed with as little vomit as possible.”

He stands, and Gwaine twists his upper body to keep him in his line of sight. Twists too far, he realises, when he and the chair wobble and he pitches towards the floor. Lancelot catches him, just, hauling him to his feet and pulling Gwaine’s arm around his shoulder. Bertram takes his other arm, and Gwaine finds himself being half-carried out of the tavern and back up the hill to his house.

He lets the fuzzy darkness close back in as they stagger along, because he wants these few hours of not knowing anything before he wakes tomorrow with his head exploding and has to explain to his ma that he’s leaving.

X

Lancelot feels more than a little like he is doing something wrong in sneaking around Gwaine’s house in the early hours of the morning, possibly because he is. He cannot sleep, though, and he is concerned about Gwaine; it is so many months since he last saw him, and yet nothing seems to have changed. Merlin is miserable beyond anything Lancelot had ever anticipated him being, and Gwaine is apparently drinking himself into a near-catatonic state. Of course, Bertram said that that was the first time Gwaine had done it, but that could have meant drinking in general (highly improbable), drinking that much, or running from his home without telling anyone where he was going in order to do so.

Telling Merlin that Gwaine loves (loved, maybe, but Lancelot does not want to consider that a possibility, and surely the sight of Montague would not have distressed Gwaine so much if he did not feel something akin to remorse for his actions) was a truly terrible idea.

He paces the breadth of the room that is his for the night several times before opening his door as quietly as he can – Bertram mentioned not wanting to wake a child as they hauled Gwaine up the hill to his house, and Lancelot has no desire to make himself any more unwelcome here by doing so now – and makes his way to the room in which they left Gwaine earlier in the evening. There is a slight glow emanating from around the edges of the door, so Lancelot is unsurprised when he pushes it open to find Bertram seated in a chair beside the bed, an open book in his lap but his eyes fixed on Gwaine’s snoring form.

He pauses, no longer quite so certain about what he is doing, but Bertram nods to a second chair – one Lancelot is fairly sure had not been in the room earlier – and waves in a gesture Lancelot interprets as instructing him to close the door. “I thought you’d be here sooner or later, Sir Lancelot,” he says quietly once Lancelot is seated.

“Just Lancelot, please. You could not sleep either, I take it?” Lancelot asks, although the query is largely redundant.

Bertram closes his book, a tattered scrap of fabric marking his page, and places it gently on the floor. “You understand, I’m sure, the concern that prompts you to care for someone so completely incapable of caring for themselves, regardless of whether or not you want to.”

Lancelot nods stiffly, having placed himself in a similar position in relation to Merlin, even when some part of him loathed Merlin for placing his pride above ensuring Arthur had an accurate opinion of Gwaine (that is not a fact he will be sharing, however, because it will only hurt Gwaine further even as he refuses to blame Merlin for it). “Yes, I suppose I do. He and Merlin have perhaps a teaspoonful of self-preservation between them.” Then, feeling the need to defend his friends somehow, he adds, “There are few people I would rather have on my side in a fight than the pair of them, though.”

“So I’ve heard,” Bertram says, looking back at Gwaine.

There is something in his intonation that makes Lancelot pause. “ _What_ have you heard?” he asks cautiously; he would rather not spill any more secrets, Gwaine’s or otherwise.

“Nothing at all, for quite a few weeks. It was a matter of some concern, seeing as he usually comes back here full of highly inappropriate tales and wastes no time in sharing them.” He sighs, sounding tired – only to be expected, if he has been sitting here all night; Lancelot is tired himself, and he has managed a couple of hours of sleep before leaving his room – and surprisingly old, given that Lancelot would estimate his age to be no more than five years greater than that of himself and Gwaine. Lancelot considers the possibility that he has had the easier task all this time, for they at least knew why Merlin was unhappy even if they could do nothing about it.

“And then,” Bertram continues after a moment, “Gareth told my four-year-old daughter to ask Gwaine to tell her a story and, much to our trepidation, he did. He’s told a lot of them, making things I suspect – Merlin, you said? – told him into suitably child-friendly stories.”

That successfully clarified absolutely nothing, Lancelot thinks. “How true were they?”

“This is Gwaine we’re talking about, Lancelot. I imagine they were grossly embellished in some places and entirely lacking detail in others.” He looks at Lancelot with, Lancelot expects, an expression very similar to his own, doubt and curiosity intermingled, both trying to assess what the other knows without revealing anything they do not. “I believe all the essential facts were present, however. I had no idea Prince Arthur of Camelot could be so...broad minded. Until not too long ago, everything I’d heard of him suggested he was going to be every bit his father’s son.”

“King Arthur,” Lancelot corrects absentmindedly, musing on the implications of Bertram’s words. It could be that he is alluding to Arthur’s acceptance of Merlin’s magic, or it could merely be a reference to the fact that Arthur allows men like Lancelot the option of being a knight, and until he knows which he cannot and will not say anything further about it. “He was crowned a few weeks ago, after his father declared winter the result of evil magic.” He does look forward to telling Gwaine that, recalling the joy Gwaine took in trying to start a betting pool over what it would be that finally separated Uther from his crown (he failed, given that it was a subject most people were far too cautious – or, as Gwaine had phrased it, boring – to gamble on, but the attempt had been most enthusiastic for the day it had lasted).

“There’ll be some pretty big changes happening there soon, I suppose,” Bertram says, relieving Lancelot of his hope that they could turn the conversation away from the territory of deeply ambiguous statements. He is no longer all that surprised that Gwaine did not mention his family all that much, because he already finds both of his brothers deeply infuriating.

“I am sure there will,” he agrees honestly – whenever power changes hands, there are always changes, and in this case the ban on magic being lifted will be one of them – then attempts again to change the subject. “How is it that you know that Gwaine is a knight when the rest of your family do not?”

“Conjecture, mostly. He knew a lot of stories of Camelot, and a lot of details that the average person wouldn’t.” Bertram looks at Lancelot in a way that suggest he knows exactly what he’s trying to do, but he does not seem to require Lancelot to comment on it. “He doesn’t fight like he used to, either; he has more control now. And then there’s the fact that he has a sword bearing the Pendragon crest, and a cloak just like yours hidden under his bed. He confirmed it last week, as well; I don’t think it even occurred to him that it was only a guess on my part when I asked about it.”

“And Merlin? Was that just a guess as well?” He hopes not, because if it was Lancelot has confirmed something else Gwaine might not have wanted his family to know.

“Someone had to have told him everything,” Bertram replies, “And he wasn’t in any of his stories until the latest one. It was either the prince or his servant – that was what he called them at first. Never any names, just the prince, his servant, the maid and the lady, and then a few others now and again. Gwaine’s never been too fond of nobility, so it made far more sense that it was Merlin rather than the prince.” Lancelot nods, accepting the reasoning as sound, silently adding that even if Arthur had known half the details of these stories before Gwaine discovered Merlin’s magic, the list of people he would have told before he told Gwaine is impressively long.

Bertram continues speaking, looking at Gwaine again as he does so, and his voice is soft and fond. “Before long, he was calling them the servant and his prince, though I’m not sure he even noticed that he changed it. I would just have thought it was one of his oddities, that he’d put the servant before their master, but he wasn’t...well, I’m sure you’ll know what I mean if I say he wasn’t acting like himself. I asked him about his drinking and promiscuity – or lack thereof – and he argued that maybe he’d changed; that was when he told me about your friend the mistake, although perhaps _told_ is not the most accurate description of that conversation.”

With effort, Lancelot resists the urge to deny anything even resembling a friendship with Montague, instead waiting for Bertram to finish his explanation. “As for whether it was a guess, I certainly knew there was someone. Merlin just seemed the most logical explanation. And if you’re worried about him being angry at you for telling me, don’t. He probably won’t remember it when he wakes up, so I can pretend I’ve no idea if you want.”

“On the list of reasons Gwaine might be angry at me, that one is quite a long way from the top,” Lancelot says, smiling despite it not being the most appropriate moment to do so. “It is probably better that you do not tell anyone else, though.”

“I hadn’t planned on it. He can explain however much he wants to tomorrow.” Bertram’s expression turns alarmingly grave, and Lancelot dreads whatever he will say next. “Your turn, I believe.”

He concedes, not without some reluctance, but Bertram has answered every question he has put to him with only a small amount of prevarication. “What would you like to know?”

He does not get an immediate answer, and assumes that the reason is that Bertram is still trying to formulate whatever it is he wants to say. When he does reply, the words are slow and considered. “I know my brother,” he says. “Gwaine might not believe that, but I do.” Bertram’s expression is still serious, enough so that Lancelot allows him to pause for another moment without pointing out that that is in no way a question of any sort. “I know what he’s likely to do, and I know what he won’t do, ever. You will not tell him I asked you this, please, and you will not tell him your answer.”

He stops again for Lancelot to agree to this, only continuing after his nod is vocalised, and even then the question is not close to anything Lancelot had expected. “Is Merlin as unhappy as my brother is?”

“Yes,” Lancelot says, unsurprised by how his voice sounds, sad and more than a little remorseful. “Almost certainly.”

Bertram’s lips curl into a smile, cool and a little angry in a way Lancelot had not anticipated. “Good,” he states, a ring of icy vindictiveness to the single syllable. With anyone else, Lancelot might have tried to excuse – or, failing that, to explain – Merlin’s actions, but right now he is not sure he could justify doing so. Bertram has had to watch Gwaine suffer from the end of his first relationship, and is almost certainly justified in wanting Merlin to be just as unhappy.

He stays silent, holding Bertram’s gaze until the other man breaks away to pick up his book again.

X

Merlin leaves it almost a week before asking Arthur about Lance and Montague’s absence, mostly because that’s how long it takes for the contradiction of Arthur demanding he uses his magic for simple things at any and all opportunities and Arthur sending his friends away to keep them safe from him to sink in. He dismisses it at first, because it’s Arthur and he isn’t exactly the most consistent of people, but, as he realises eventually, this is something else, going beyond Arthur’s usual habit of saying one thing and acting completely contradictorily. And so, feeling more than a little afraid of the answer, Merlin resolves himself to asking.

Experience tells him that the best way to get an honest answer from Arthur is to put whatever the question is to him when he’s not expecting it. As such, he waits until Arthur is fairly well occupied with his breakfast – not a time for question asking, if you’re clever, but the element of surprise is only going to help Merlin’s chances – before sitting opposite him at the table and saying, “Where did you send Lancelot and Montague?”

It seems Arthur is not as interested in his food as Merlin might have liked, since he looks up rather than answering immediately. “Away. They should be back soon.”

“Away _where_?” Merlin presses, because now that he’s asked once Arthur is going to be expecting him to ask again, thus losing all opportunity for Merlin to catch him unawares. “And how soon is soon?”

“Just away. Montague should be back in no more than a week, I believe, though Lancelot may be gone a little longer than that. If that’s all, I’d like to finish eating in peace, please, and you have things to be doing.” He looks pointedly in the direction of the mess of clothing littering his floor that Merlin is suppose to be gathering up in order to wash.

“No, _sire_ , that is _not_ all.” Merlin knows that his reply is terse, snapped, but knowing is not enough to change it. “Where are they? And, knowing why you sent them away, why would you possibly think that bringing Montague back first is a good idea?”

Arthur scoffs. “You know why I sent them away? _Really_?”

“Gwen told me,” Merlin answers, and he is angry. It’s one thing for Arthur to doubt him like that – he so often does, after all, and one more time makes very little difference – but it’s completely different for him to treat Merlin like he’s too stupid to work it out. It might have taken Gwen spelling it out for him to get it, but even if he knows Arthur was wrong to worry it doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand his reasoning. “Not that I should have needed telling, should I? You send away the two people I’ve hurt with my magic the same day I get it back, and I really ought to be able to work out why.”

“What are you talking about, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur asks, his expression one of deep confusion. “Guinevere doesn’t know where they are, so she can’t have told you.”

“Well, maybe she just worked it out for herself, then. It’s not like she’s an idiot.” Merlin forces himself to calm down, because yelling isn’t helping anything, although some tiny corner of his mind is noting with gleeful delight that his magic hasn’t moved from the cool, safe lining to his skin that it has been for the last few days, held there by trust and a strength of will Merlin didn’t know he had. He is angry, and nothing bad is happening and, oh, gods, isn’t that incredible?

“I’m not mad that you sent them away,” he says, slightly less loudly. “You didn’t have to, because I’m not going to hurt them or anyone else, but I understand why you thought I would. I just want to know where they are.”

“You don’t need to know,” Arthur responds heatedly, then stops, his eyes widening almost comically. “You think I sent them away because I thought you would attack them?”

“What other reason would you have?” Merlin demands and look, there is the anger colouring his voice again. “Just stop lying to me about it.”

“I’m not!” Arthur answers, and his voice isn’t exactly anger-free either. “Guinevere is wrong, as I will explain to her later, and so are you if you believe her about this.”

“Then where are they?” Merlin shouts across the table, standing up and glaring down at Arthur.

He doesn’t do so for long, though, before Arthur stands as well, slamming both palms down on the table, making his goblet shake. “Probably at Gwaine’s house by now, I should think.”

“They’re...no. _No_.” They can’t be at Gwaine’s, not Lancelot and especially not Montague, because Arthur cannot possibly be that stupid. “You’re making that up, aren’t you, so that you don’t have to admit that you don’t trust me? That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

Arthur states at him like he’s the idiot in this situation, and he finds himself repeating the question even though he knows the answer. “Isn’t it, Arthur? Please?”

Very slowly, Arthur shakes his head, voice cool but kind. “No, Merlin. If I didn’t trust you, it would be you that I’d sent away.”

“Well, you clearly don’t trust me, otherwise you’d have listened to me about not making Gwaine come back here.” Merlin sigh, exasperated, and then feels a new wave of rage. “And you sent Montague to get him? How could you be so insensitive?”

“Insensitive?” Arthur repeats, practically dripping with indignation. “Why would I be making any effort to bring Gwaine back here if it wasn’t to stop you being so bloody miserable all the time?”

“I’m not talking about _my_ feelings,” Merlin snarls, and even still his is only arguing with Arthur, angrier than he usually is when they fight but just as free of magic.

“And I don’t care about his.” Arthur is calm, sounding almost rational, and the gods know his words aren’t anything new to Merlin. It isn’t really that Arthur is selfish, because he does care about some people’s feelings – even if his way of doing so is utterly ridiculous – but when he doesn’t like someone he doesn’t particularly give a damn. Even then, it’s not so much that he doesn’t care about Gwaine’s feelings at all but that he’s putting Merlin’s first, and maybe Merlin should feel pleased or flattered but instead he’s just mad.

It doesn’t help that he understands Arthur’s thinking, either, because all that really means is that he can’t even justify being angry at him, and he hates, _hates_ saying _I told you so_ but all he can manage in response is, “You should have listened to me.”

“I’m the king, Merlin. I don’t have to listen to anyone, and I particularly don’t have to listen to you.” Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes and dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re my servant, Merlin, even if you are-”

“I’m not,” Merlin says, not waiting for the end of that sentence. He’s used to Arthur ignoring his opinions, talking down at him like he’s nothing important, but not this time. And it shouldn’t be that Arthur’s decision to disregard Merlin’s wishes with regards to Gwaine’s feelings matters more than all his many decisions to do so when it’s been lives at risk but it does. It _does_. “I quit,” Merlin tells him, and all the anger he had felt only minutes ago washes away into sadness.

“You can’t just quit, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur laughs.

“Just watch me, sire.” He turns from his king, casting a brief glance over the room as he makes his way to the door. “I suggest you get someone else to wash your clothes pretty soon, because that’s almost everything you own on the floor there. Not, of course, that you have to listen to me, seeing as I’m not even your servant anymore.”

He walks away, a finality to his words that he knows he cannot possibly stick to, but it will take Arthur a couple of days to realise that and demand he comes back to work.

X

Gwaine wakes and wishes he hadn’t.

There are only three good things he can think of about this: one, he’s waking up in a bed rather than on a dungeon floor; two, he’s fully clothed; and three, best of all, there’s no one else in there with him. Beyond that, there is a drum beating inside his head, an indescribable taste in his mouth (it’s not good, he can say that much, but anything more than that is beyond him), and far too much drink wanting to get out of his stomach. It is a little better than being dead, he thinks, but only a little.

And then there are the voices, quiet but mildly hostile, bickering from the direction of his feet; he assumes that means they’re standing in his doorway, but he isn’t about to aggravate the already merciless drummer residing in his skull by opening his eyes. He lies there, as still as he can, and listens. Bertram, Lance, and a third, the one they’re arguing with...Montague.

Yeah, the hangover is so totally a reasonable exchange for the few hours of avoiding this problem that it won him.

It takes a few moments for the voices to clarify into actual words, and then another couple for his brain to actually make sense of them.

“What was I supposed to say?” he hears Montague ask, quiet but decidedly not happy. “ _No, sorry, my lady, I can’t go watch over your son to make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit in his sleep while your other sons and the knight I travelled here with have some breakfast_? Because that would have gone over so well, especially the bit where I had to explain why in the presence of a very small child.”

Gwaine tries not to flinch at this, tries not to move at all beyond keeping up the same steady rhythm of _I’m still asleep_ breathing, but he doesn’t think he does all that well. They know. Bertram knows – but if he knows about Merlin he knows _everything_ anyway – and Lancelot, and if Lance knows then how can everyone in Camelot not know, how can _Merlin_ not know? Fortunately, the sound of air catching in his throat is drowned out by Lance’s reply. “You should have told her something, at least. Do you really think it would be a good idea for Gwaine to wake up with you here, bearing in mind he ran from the house after seeing you for a matter of seconds?”

“I told you there was nothing I could say, unless I wanted to explain pretty much everything,” Montague snaps, then sighs. “I’m sorry. I know I don’t belong here, Sir Lancelot, and I know if you had any choice in the matter I wouldn’t belong in Camelot either. There’s no need for you to keep reminding me of it.” He sounds alarmingly matter of fact about it, and Gwaine wonders what has led up to him being here, in Gwaine’s house, and why he isn’t more bothered by it. “If one of you wants to go explain why the other isn’t eating anything, I’m happy to go hide someplace again until you decide he’s well enough to speak to me.”

There is a long moment of silence, and Gwaine assumes Bertram and Lance (and it’s no less weird having his older brother by blood and the man who just acts like it in the same place now that he’s sober and headachey than it was last night) are trying to decide how to respond.

“You go, Lancelot,” Bertram says eventually.

“Are you sure?” Lance asks, and Gwaine realises amidst all his confusion and no small amount of horror that he’s actually kind of offended. Just how pathetic do they think he is, that he can’t be left alone with...okay, fine, the running away and getting wasted last night wasn’t big and it certainly wasn’t clever, but it was a surprise; for all that he thought he could handle seeing everyone he had run away from, he wasn’t prepared for how difficult it would be to see himself, and who else has he tried to run further or faster from? And yeah, he’s probably going to continue pretending to be asleep on the off-chance that they actually leave him here with Montague, but he’s more than capable of doing so until someone else comes back.

“Yeah, it’ll be fine,” Bertram replies, “I’ll be down in a few minutes.” Oh, okay, they are going to leave him, and why was he complaining again?

Still, he wants to know what Bertram plans to say to Montague that he can’t say in front of Lance. As, he imagine, is Lance himself, given the second decent length silence before he agrees. “Okay. If you think it is a good idea.”

“I do,” Bertram states, and there is no further comment before the door clicks closed, presumably behind Lance.

“This where you threaten me?” Montague asks. “Because when the King of Camelot has promised me everything from banishment to execution the second I make a punishable mistake, there isn’t really a whole lot you can do to scare me.”

Gwaine wonders what Montague could have done to make Uther that annoyed, although of course the king is mad and incredibly easy to irritate. Even so, it’s quite impressive, and more than Gwaine managed his whole time there (although he actually was banished, so he still counts that as his victory).

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Bertram says, apparently less curious than Gwaine is. “I was just going to say that I’m leaving the door open, and that just because we’re downstairs it doesn’t mean that we can’t hear anything happening up here.”

Montague laughs, the sound louder than anything else Gwaine has heard this morning – and, damn, does it hurt his head – then apologises. “Sorry. Not funny, right?”

Gwaine can picture perfectly his brother’s glare at this moment, even if he has no idea at all what exactly Bertram was trying to say, why he wanted Lance to leave before he said it, or why Montague found it funny. Bertram doesn’t say anything else, but Montague adds, “Have a nice breakfast. Your mother is a seriously impressive cook, by the way.”

The door opens – and, as Bertram had said, does not close again – then Gwaine hears the creak of floorboards – no footsteps, and he seriously appreciates the fact that everyone is walking around without shoes on – approach the bed, then stop. It’s a little creepy, the idea that Montague might just be standing there staring at him, and Gwaine can’t even open his eyes to see if he is because he’ll have to give up the pretence of sleeping if he does. And the light will _hurt_ , he knows, driving into his brain like knives. Barely seconds after the creaking floorboards stop, there is a rustle of clothing and a soft sigh from a couple of feet away, and Gwaine figures Montague has found a chair to sit in (less unnerving, but still far from pleasant).

“There’s water here if you want it,” Montague says softly after a couple of minutes, and Gwaine knows that however poorly he hid his flinching earlier it has nothing on this. “I have seen you fake sleep before, you know,” Montague adds. “There’s no need to be quite so surprised.”

Again, the air catches on nothing in Gwaine’s throat, sounding alarmingly like a sob. It isn’t, it’s just a ragged, jagged, painful breath, but it sounds like it, and Gwaine hates how weak he feels. If he could just have woken up half an hour earlier or later, he could have avoided this, but he didn’t and now he’s stuck pretending to be asleep despite the fact that the person he’s pretending for can see right through it. And if he hadn’t felt like the fact that he was lying down was probably the only reason his head was still attached and in one piece, he’d get up and leave like he did the morning when...that morning. As it is, he’s just going to stay in bed, eyes closed, and pretend he is the only person in the room. Even if Montague is going to keep talking at him.

“Don’t you ever get tired of doing what everyone expects you to do?” he asks, and Gwaine thinks it sounds vaguely amused. “I mean, running off to get drunk when you see me? Not very original, is it?” That is definitely amusement; Gwaine puts serious consideration into rolling over so that he’s facing Montague and then glaring, but it’s just too much effort. “No response to that, huh? Perhaps you’re less predictable than I thought.”

It is a possibility the consideration of which is entirely mutual, because Gwaine has no idea what is going on. Montague sitting silent in his room he might understand, but this incessant questioning is confusing and unpleasant and he really wants to shout for his brother to come back but he’s not quite that pathetic yet.

“Here’s the thing,” Montague says. “Sir Lancelot only allowed me to stay here because he didn’t think you’d wake up while they were gone, and your brother thought I hadn’t noticed you were awake.” He stops for a second, and Gwaine feels like one of the most readable people ever when he continues. “Yeah, he knows you’re awake. Did you really think that comment was meant for me? Given that my eyes are actually open, I can see that the door isn’t shut.”

Okay, that does make sense, and not only is Gwaine horribly readable he’s also far less quick on the uptake than he’d like to be. He’d plead being hungover as an excuse, but he’s never really been all that aware of subtle stuff. It doesn’t bother him, most of the time, except when other people around him are demonstrating their superior observational skills.

“Returning to my point, though,” Montague picks up when Gwaine still doesn’t say anything. “Bertram expects you to keep pretending to be asleep. He’ll eat stupidly fast, come back up here so that you can pretend to be just waking up when he comes in, and chances are he won’t ever say anything about it. All because he thinks he knows what you’re going to do. But don’t you think it’d be easier to get this awkwardness out of the way now, without other people present, seeing as we live in the same place and have...well, friends may be an exaggeration, for the most part, but we certainly have acquaintances in common?”

Gods, Gwaine really hates people who are smarter than he is, particularly seeing as he’s bright enough himself to work out that Montague has a point. Because it’s great that Lance and Bertram want to protect him, but they won’t always be there. He’ll have to acknowledge Montague’s presence sooner or later, and whilst he can put it off for a while, ignoring Montague today, tomorrow, for days and weeks and months, it won’t make it any easier and it won’t make him feel any cleaner.

Mustering all his courage – and willing his stomach not to rebel hugely –, Gwaine rolls onto his side and then, very slowly, forces himself into a seated position. The room swirls for a moment and he worries that he really will throw up, but closing his eyes for a few seconds solves that. He opens them again, accepting with slightly unsteady hands the cup of water Montague holds before him, sipping at it slowly; it might be ages since he last felt this awful as a result of drink, but he still remembers how to deal with it. Even so, his stomach gurgles unpleasantly, and it is only force of will that keeps its contents contained.

“How,” he says, voice hoarse and more than a little resigned, “Do you suggest we make this any less awkward than it actually it?”

Montague grins, but the way he avoids Gwaine’s eyes after putting so much effort into needling him into speech suggests Gwaine isn’t the only one feeling filthy with shame. He knows why he does, because he is _better_ than he was that night, but he doesn’t know about Montague. “My bright ideas only ran as far as getting you to talk to me, to be honest,” Montague laughs. “I was kind of hoping you’d have some idea of what to say.”

X

The silence extends, long and uncomfortable, and Gwaine hates the rational thought process that lead him to agree to try to speak to Montague without someone else present. It was rational, though, and they do need to talk, but he can’t. He can’t talk about himself, or about what they – _he_ – did, and he doesn’t want to hear about whatever it is that has them here from Montague. Which leaves him trying to find something else to talk about.

“So what’d you do to piss off Uther?” he asks, eventually, because it’s better than the silence and, really, he’s kind of curious. Yeah, Uther is mental, but it’s kind of hard to annoy him enough to get multiple threats without accidentally annoying him enough to have him act upon one of those threats.

Montague looks surprised, and Gwaine figures he’d given up on waiting for him to speak. “What?” he says, and Gwaine is deeply comforted by the fact that he looks less than certain; it just wouldn’t be fair for him to be the only one feeling insecure and uncomfortable here.

“You told Bertram he threatened you with all kinds of crap. I’m a little jealous; never managed to upset him quite that much myself.”

Montague nods, his confusion clearing. “It wasn’t Uther. King Arthur is king now. And that sentence was a little repetitive, wasn’t it?” He laughs again, at himself rather than at Gwaine this time. “I’m kind of on thin ice in Camelot, though, and I don’t want something as small as failing to show the new king proper respect to be the thing that has me kicked out. Particularly seeing as I figure yours is going to be yet another name on the long list of those who want nothing more.”

Gwaine doesn’t know what to think of that, not the fact that people want Montague gone from Camelot, or the assumption that he’s going to be one of them. It can wait until later, when things feel slightly less difficult – if they ever do – and he’s far more interested in the first part of Montague’s statement. “Arthur is king? What happened? Is-is everyone okay?”

“King Arthur was finally persuaded to see sense about his father’s ability to rule. It was pretty peaceful, actually, and _everyone_ is fine.” The emphasis tells Gwaine that Montague knows exactly what he actually wants to ask – although how he knows, Gwaine has no idea – but the smile that goes with it isn’t unkind, and it’s all just far too hard for him to try work out when he feels like this.

“Why are you here?” he asks after a moment, because Merlin is not a topic he wants to discuss. It’s only when the words are out of his mouth that he realises how abrupt they sound, but then it’s not really something he cares about all that much.

“Because King Arthur didn’t think it a good idea for Sir Lancelot to travel here on his own in the middle of winter when food is scarce and there are far more bandits about than usual?” The question is a little sarcastic, slightly mocking – not cruelly so, Gwaine doesn’t think – but the one that follows it is entirely serious. “You don’t seriously think I’m here by choice, do you?”

“I’d definitely be joining Lance and Arthur in trying to get rid of you if I did,” Gwaine states, discovering as he does that he hasn’t actually decided whether he’d prefer to try to actively get Montague out of Camelot or just ignore him until he forgets that they slept together (so forever, most likely). “Wasn’t what I meant, though. Why are you here, in my room? Given that I’m awake and upright, I’m clearly not in any danger, and it’s not like I’m going to bolt again. I don’t need supervision.”

“No, probably not. But if I go downstairs Sir Lancelot’ll only end up rushing up here to see how you are and explain that there’s nothing bad going on in the city, and I can do that just fine.” He sighs, and Gwaine sees whatever image he had been trying to project fall away. He thought earlier that Montague had sounded unbothered by the fact that people in Camelot – the important ones, at least – didn’t seem to like him all that much, but his face now suggests that it’s all an act, and Gwaine kind of wonders what he did to make himself so unpopular. “Sir Lancelot was worried about you, both during the journey here – worried enough to actually speak to me, which he tries his hardest not to do most of the time – and yesterday evening when you ran off. He deserves to eat his breakfast in peace, as much as possible.”

“Hmph,” Gwaine says. “Lance worries about everything.” He doesn’t contradict Montague’s words, because he kind of has a point. Gwaine hasn’t exactly made things easy for Lance, not for ages, and he owes him a quiet breakfast at the very least. And then when he’s done Gwaine will apologise for buggering off, find out why they’re there and then listen to his ma nag at him for being a terrible, deceitful child before telling her and everyone else that he’s leaving.

The silence falls again, still uncomfortable but its oppressive nature has lessened enough that Gwaine is content not to break it again. Montague, it seems, thinks otherwise. Gwaine ignores him as he takes several short, sharp breaths of the sort that usually precede something particularly difficult to say, hoping that he decides against speaking altogether. Sadly, it is not to be; Montague manages, after the fourth attempt, to actually form the start of a sentence. “So, about what we-”

“ _No_ ,” Gwaine cuts in. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Montague carries on, a little louder than before but not enough that Gwaine’s family is likely to overhear. “And I don’t want to be a pariah in a city I’d sort of like to call home, just because I was unfortunate enough to be your rebound shag. Doesn’t look too much like either of us is getting what we want, does it?”

“Oh, please,” Gwaine says, almost laughing but for the fact that the reminder makes his stomach churn all over again. “No one in Camelot cares what I do.”

“The fact that the king makes a point of threatening me on a daily basis might suggest otherwise,” Montague says, and Gwaine is deeply underwhelmed, given Arthur’s tendency to threaten him and anyone else he wants to. It seems Montague notices it, too, because he continues. “And then there’s the way Sir Lancelot tricked me into flirting with a barmaid whose father sort of wants my blood, and...”

He stops, and Gwaine figures Montague has either run out of examples or that he doesn’t want to share whatever else has happened with him. “Which one?” Gwaine asks, like that matters somehow.

And apparently it does, because Montague answers, “The dark haired one. Bea?”

“Beatrice,” Gwaine replies, and it tells him more than he’d expected it to. “Lance wouldn’t send you after her if you hadn’t done something more than-what did you do?” He kind of has a hard time picturing Lance setting the barmaids on anyone, particularly not the most vicious of them.

“Said something I shouldn’t have done to Merlin. Sir Lancelot decided socking me for it wasn’t quite punishment enough. Packs quite a punch, he does.”

Gwaine splutters a laugh, stunted and just as surprising to himself as it is to Montague. “Oh, I know,” he agrees, remembering Lance’s grip at his throat as he raised his hand to hit him a second time. “What was it that you said?”

“Yeah, because I want you to hit me for it as well,” Montague shakes his head, grimacing. “If you really want to know, ask Merlin about it when we get back. Although I don’t know if he’ll tell you.”

“What does that mean?” Gwaine asks, suddenly and irrationally irritated. He and Merlin might be over, but Gwaine still loves him – not that he’ll be saying that, thank you very much – and Merlin...Merlin doesn’t keep secrets from him, not since he found out about his magic.

Montague shrugs, frowning at Gwaine. “You want to know why I stay in Camelot, when half the people there are so determined to get rid of me? I got my chance at a knighthood because Merlin persuaded the king that I deserved one, before he knew what happened between us.”

“You’re not answering my question,” Gwaine cuts in, glaring.

“I am, if you would just wait for me to finish,” Montague snaps, voice cold, and unlike when he snapped at Lance earlier he doesn’t apologise to Gwaine. He looks him in the eye, unflinching, and Gwaine doesn’t know why Lance got a sorry and he doesn’t, why eye contact is suddenly fine when Montague was barely willing to look at him at the start of their conversation. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t ask. “When I said that I’d met you, and that we’d been together, King Arthur was ready to have me thrown out immediately, but Merlin said that I could stay. I don’t know why, but he doesn’t hate me for what we did, even though he’s just about the only one who understands that it’s something _we_ did rather than just me. I stay in Camelot because Merlin lets me, because – and I have no idea why – Merlin is my friend. So that’s why he might not tell you, because some stupidly hopeful part of me likes to think my friend won’t go sharing things that’ll get the crap beaten out of me.”

Montague doesn’t drop the confrontational look and Gwaine hates it. He knows exactly what he’s done, knows that he might not have been the only one he hurt by it, but what’s done is done. Besides, Merlin must have gotten over his hurt pretty damn quickly, assuming he was even bothered by it at all. If he can be friends with Montague, he can’t be all that concerned about the fact that Gwaine slept with him, that he was pretty much selling himself out only days after they broke up. He definitely won’t be telling Merlin that he’s still in love with him, when it sounds like Merlin is more than over him.

Gwaine holds Montague’s eyes, stubborn and stupid – yeah, he’s not too big to admit it –, until the other man breaks away, shaking his head as the shame floods back into his posture. “Of course,” he says, “It might be that as soon as we get you back there Merlin changes his mind and I’m out on my arse. Hearing that we slept together really upset him, you know. If you’d told me you’d just broken up with someone, I wouldn’t have said anything about meeting you.”

Montague’s sentence could sound angry, accusatory, but it doesn’t, and maybe that’s the problem, because Gwaine really kind of thinks that it should. There should be blame there, from someone other than himself, and he doesn’t know why the absence of it is the thing that breaks the dam holding back his anger, only that it is. “And if you’d told me you were going to Camelot, I sure as hell wouldn’t have slept with you!”

“So you can actually say it, then?” Montague says, smirking like he can tell this is the first time Gwaine has admitted what he did beyond the confines of his own brain. He carries on talking, even though he must hear the door open and slam shut downstairs. “You can say it to me, at least. Who knows whether you can say it to anyone else.”

“I hardly have to, do I? It seems you’ve already told almost everyone I know.” Gwaine hates Montague, hates his arrogance and his superiority, hates how easily he got Gwaine into his bed. He hates himself more, though, hates that he can’t go back to that night three months ago and smack some sense into himself, and his hatred is enough to carry him out of bed and to his feet, enough to keep his nausea at bay as he reaches for the dagger under his mattress.

Montague pales, rising from his seat as Gwaine brings the blade up in front of him. “Does that make you feel better?” he asks, eyes flicking between the blade and Gwaine’s face. “Do you feel stronger with that in your hands?” His voice is still quiet, despite how loud Gwaine’s had been, and there is an edge of actual curiosity to it.

Gwaine regrets having shouted, particularly seeing as the footsteps that had pounded up the stairs a moment ago are now making their way towards his room as well. He regrets drawing the blade, too, because whatever instinct it was that made him do it is clearly working wrong. He isn’t in any danger here; whatever harm Montague can do him has already been done, thanks to his own idiocy, and waving a knife around just makes him feel like a boy, young and stupid and afraid of nothing more than words.

“No,” he says, putting the knife down on his pillow and straightening up. “Nothing’s going to make me feel better, unless you happen to know some way to erase that night from everyone’s memories.”

“You didn’t see Merlin cry,” Montague tells him, not looking away from Gwaine to see whoever it is that’s stopped just inside the doorway, and Gwaine doesn’t either. His heart twists, throbbing painfully at the thought of Merlin in tears over what he did, and he wants to cry himself. “If I could undo it, I would. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Gwaine agrees. “Yeah, so am I.”

“Truce?” Montague offers, raising an eyebrow in question. He sticks his right hand out, still ignoring their watchers (one of whom is Lance, because Gwaine recognises that startled gasp), and waits.

Gwaine closes his eyes, holds his breath, and tries to decide. He can hold his hate close, use it keep him warm and alive when he’s back in the city and watching Merlin follow his prince – _king_ – around with that lovesick expression that somehow only Gwaine could decipher, drink himself into oblivion every night before dragging himself up to his cold, empty bed. Or he can let it go, forgive Montague for being the poor bloke who happened to be the first person to make a move on him after Merlin, forgive him for being the only one to touch him like that since Merlin. He doesn’t want to, but he should, and what reason does he have not to? What reason does he have, beyond the little security his hate provides him with, hate of himself and Montague, bitter and brutal and the only thing that might possibly let him see the man he loves without breaking any more than he already has. But Merlin...

“Lance?” he calls, opening his eyes, still staring at Montague, and hears his friend step into the room fully.

“Yes?” Lance replies, advancing steadily until he’s standing behind Montague. He looks ready to reach out and take Montague out of there, but Bertram stops him with a hand on his shoulder and, when Lance glances back at him, a single shake of his head.

“Is he telling the truth? Is Merlin...?” Gwaine asks, and stops. The last time he used Merlin’s name was in the letter he left him, no matter how many evenings it has been the last thing he thought before going to sleep, how many mornings he has woken up with it on his tongue, how many times he has cried and moaned and _begged_ it in his dreams. “Is Merlin his friend?”

Lance frowns, but answers regardless. “Yes,” he says, and it’s pretty much what Gwaine had expected, because it would be a stupidly easy lie to check. “They are friends, not that any of the rest of us understand it.” There is an edge of something to his tone, hostility and...meanness as well, and Gwaine guesses that whatever Montague said to Merlin was particularly unpleasant, because Lancelot is genuinely the nicest man he knows.

But that doesn’t matter too much, does it? Merlin has forgiven and forgotten and fucking well befriended Montague, and how can Gwaine allow his own feelings to cause friction, make Merlin choose between them? He never asked Merlin to choose between him and Arthur, because even though he knew he would lose that one Merlin needed him too much for him to make him, and he can’t expect Merlin to choose between he and Montague either, when that choice will make Merlin feel awful whatever he decides.

And still, now, so very long after fleeing the city and the hold Merlin had on him, that hold is still there. This is the last time, Gwaine promises himself, the last time he lets what Merlin wants come before what he wants himself. It has to be, because he isn’t Merlin’s lover any more, and he can’t let his heart rule him to the point where he gives away everything and keeps nothing for himself. The last horrible, hurtful time.

“Truce,” he agrees, shaking Montague’s hand, still held out waiting for him like Montague knew what he was going to decide about that as well. He lets go quickly, fighting the urge to wipe his hand on his trousers, and looks past Montague to his brother and Lance. “The pair of you leave any breakfast for me? Because I so don’t want to explain everything on an empty stomach.”

X

“So I’m a knight,” Gwaine says, sitting at the table in the kitchen twenty minutes later.

His ma looks at him with some blend of sarcastic disapproval, Bertram’s expression is a little mocking in a dry way, and Gareth’s is of the sort that makes Gwaine very glad that while there are a few people in the world who have the power to kill with a look, his little brother isn’t one of them. Gwaine ignores him, as best as he can, focusing instead on his niece and sister-in-law, neither of whom he wants to hear all of this, the former because of her age and the latter because Gwaine just doesn’t know her well enough.

“Molly,” he says, looking at her, with the odd glance at Bertram to check he isn’t disagreeing with him about this. “Do you remember when I told you about the man who killed the gryphon and saved the prince?” Molly nods, and from the corner of his eye Gwaine sees Lance tense slightly. He so isn’t going to be happy with him for this, Gwaine knows, but he carries on anyway. “And you remember how I said all my stories are true? The man who did that is Sir Lancelot, and I reckon he’s a whole lot better at telling that story than I am.” Molly’s face lights up and she looks at Lancelot with visible excitement. “Why don’t you and your ma ask him to tell you about it?” Gwaine looks to Rebekah before adding, “In the living room, maybe?”

She nods, taking Molly’s hand and letting her pull her from the room, which leaves Gwaine facing Lance’s frown. “Sorry,” he says. “Just, you know, please? They know everything, even about Merlin, so you don’t need to lie at all or anything. Please?”

Lance rolls his eyes, but rises from his seat anyway. “It might have been nice if you had asked me first,” he states as he walks towards the door. “Try not to take forever explaining things, if you think that’s possible.”

Gwaine smiles, because of course Lance would agree, too nice not to. And maybe a little guilt-ridden, too, and Gwaine needs to tell him that he doesn’t need to be, that Merlin would have worked things out sooner or later, and it wouldn’t have been any less horrible just because it’d happened a month or two down the line and without Lance’s input. “Thanks,” he says. “I’ll try keep it brief.”

Lance nods, once, and leaves, Montague trailing behind him, and Gwaine hears Molly explode into excited chatter as soon as the door opens. He almost feels bad for setting her on his friend, but this is going to be hard enough without trying to make the fact that he was sleeping with his best friend and fled the city when they broke up into something vaguely suitable for children.

“Okay,” his mother says, when Gwaine stays staring at the closed door for a couple of minutes. “Any time you want to start is fine with us.”

X

Merlin has no idea how to fill his day, because for all that he complains about how hard Arthur makes him work, he doesn’t actually know what to do with himself if he doesn’t have a hellishly long list of tasks to perform or some kind of threat to protect Arthur from. Even as a child he always had things to do, stuff to help his mother with, and the rare occasions he had a few hours to himself he usually spent them mucking about with Will (and maybe that was part of the reason Hunith kept him so busy most of the time, because he and Will were damn good at getting into trouble). Since he got to Camelot, the only real days off that he’s had have been when he was ill, and what little spare time he had was spent in the company of Gwen or Gaius at first, then Gwaine or Lancelot or one of the others more recently.

And now, the knights are at training (only Gwaine ever wanted to risk Arthur’s wrath and skip it to be with Merlin, and it’s not like he wants to be doing what he did with Gwaine with any of the others), Gwaine, Lance and Montague are gone (at Gwaine’s house, all of them, and if only Merlin hadn’t gotten all pathetic and miserable when the snow came Arthur wouldn’t have sent them there, wouldn’t be doing this to Gwaine), and Gwen is still in a huff with him. Which leaves Gaius, and Merlin having to do all sorts of things to help him instead of running around after Arthur.

It’s better than nothing, he decides, and at least Gaius says please when he gives Merlin orders.

He spends the morning crushing stinky plants that are of huge medical necessity – or so Gaius says, but his smile suggests it’s somewhat less important than his words do – and listening to Gaius complain about the ache winter causes in his old bones, then offers obediently to deliver all the various tonics, poultices and salves that people throughout the city require that afternoon.

X

Gwaine tells everything, or just about, and finds himself doing so in far more detail than he’d intended to.

He begins with Merlin coming to find him so they could rescue Arthur, with the wyverns and the idiocy of anyone visiting the Perilous Lands alone. His mother looks at him disapprovingly for that, and Gareth outright glares, although Gwaine maintains they’d be on his side if they’d been there as well. He mentions the bloke on the bridge calling him Strength, when in reality he’s pretty sure he is anything but strong, and even about the twisting unhappiness he felt as he watched Merlin and Arthur ride across the border into Camelot and wanted to follow them more than he had words for.

And then there is the whole mess with Morgana turning psycho – or letting everyone know just how psychotic she actually is, at least – and hiding in caves and the abandoned castle. The eight of them agreeing to go to war for Arthur, despite – maybe because of, in Gwaine’s case – it being almost certain that they wouldn’t win, and their reward. Knighthoods for the four of them, Arthur rescinding Gwaine and Lance’s banishments, and by some combination of a miracle and Merlin’s magic actually retaking Camelot and all surviving to tell the tale. It’s all so simple to share, when it comes down with it, and even his decision to stay in the city – so very, very unlike him – seems to make sense when he says it.

But then he stalls. Why he chose to stay is not at all difficult. Why he chose to leave is excruciating.

“I was with someone,” Gwaine says, his eyes fixed on the table before him, right index finger tracing the grain of the wood, mapping one dark line after another. “I was...” he stops, swallows, and internally curses the dryness of his mouth.

Bertram stands, drawing Gwaine’s attention to him as he removes the kettle from the stove and pours hot water into a cup. Gwaine takes it gratefully when his brother holds it out to him, sipping slowly. He really doesn’t like the herbal stuff his ma drinks – it smells too strong, tastes too weak, and cannot possibly compare to even the worst ale he’s ever had – but today it’s comforting, sort of. Bertram pats his shoulder as he returns to his seat, and that’s just as comforting, despite how patronising it is.

“I was in love with him,” Gwaine blurts out, staring at the cup in his hands rather than the table or his family. It sits in him like shame, though, and he raises his eyes as he corrects himself. He isn’t ashamed of his feelings, or his actions because of them, except perhaps for the running away. “I _am_ in love with him,” he says, and it sounds almost proud, even as he contradicts that with his next words. “It was stupid, because I knew he didn’t feel the same, but I was happy anyway.”

He falls silent again, wishing that the story ended there. He pretends for a minute that it does, allowing himself a make-believe happily ever after of the sort he told to Molly, and it is good, simple, easy. The world where Merlin falls in love with him in return is beautiful, but ultimately fictional. He isn’t that lucky.

His mother clears her throat, and Gwaine makes himself carry on. “It ended, when- when he found out how I felt, and I couldn’t stay there. It-it hurt too much.” A swallow and another gulp of his drink does something to clear the shakiness from his voice, but his throat feels full, blocked. “And so I ran away, pretty much. Waited long enough to get Arthur’s permission to leave, and then I snuck out of there at dawn. Except I was only allowed to go if I swore I’d come back when summoned. That’s why they’re here, to take me back. So...I’m going.”

“Just like that?” Gareth asks, voice frosty. Their ma looks sympathetic, Bertram understanding, but Gareth is just _angry_. “You’re just going to walk out again, after hiding all this for months?”

“Kind of, yeah,” Gwaine tells him. “I’m sorry?” It comes out as a question without him meaning it to, but then he isn’t exactly sure why Gareth is quite so mad at him.

“You’re sorry?” Gareth asks, his chair legs scraping unpleasantly against the floor as he stands. “I suppose that makes it all okay, then, doesn’t it?” He storms from the room before Gwaine can say anything, slamming the door behind him and stomping – _loudly_ – up the stairs.

Gwaine returns his gaze to the cup still in his hand, now mostly cold. He doesn’t want to see his ma look at him as scornfully as Gareth just did, even though he thinks he probably deserves it.

“Hmm,” she says, after a long, long moment, standing with slightly more grace and taking a pan from the line of hooks above the stove. “You’ll be wanting a decent lunch, then, and a good night’s sleep tonight before you go.”

“You’re not...mad?” Gwaine asks, startled. “Or disappointed, at least?”

“It might have been nice if you’d told us, rather than let us worry you were hiding here because you’d done something terrible,” she replies distractedly. When he still says nothing, she glances at him, then puts down the pan and wraps him into a hug. “You’re still my son, though. I’m glad you’ve found somewhere you belong.”

Gwaine hugs her back, gratefully, and for all that she looks to have aged over the last few years her grip isn’t any weaker than he remembers it being when he was a kid. She pats his back three times, then releases him. “Go find everyone else, tell them it’s lunchtime. Leave Gareth; he’ll calm down soon enough.”

X

Gwaine stands for a second in the doorway to the living room, left a little ajar. Lancelot sits in what is usually Bertram’s chair – of course he would pick that one, Gwaine thinks, despite how hideously uncomfortable it is – opposite Rebekah, who is curled up with her feet on her seat, Molly perched carefully on the arm of her chair. Lance seems distinctly uncomfortable, but Molly is visibly hanging on to his every word, and even Rebekah looks interested as well, if not quite so intently. As far as Gwaine can tell, Lance is explaining how they met, almost certainly at Molly’s request, and Gwaine feels more than a little guilty for asking this of him.

He pushes the door the rest of the way open, guilt intensifying as he sees the look of relief that spreads across Lance’s face. Lance stands, but his path to Gwaine halts when Molly launches from her perch too quickly for her mother to stop her and races across the room to Gwaine. “I like Lancelot,” she announces, standing just in front of him. “Is he going to stay here too?”

“He’s staying here tonight,” Gwaine hedges, then shrugs when Lance frowns at him. He has a sneaky suspicion Molly will react to the news that he’s leaving tomorrow about as well as Gareth did, though, so he’ll save that for a little later on. “Run along to the kitchen now, kid, and we can talk after lunch.” He ruffles her hair fondly, then gives her a gentle push to get her moving. Rebekah follows readily, with a smile at Lance that vanishes as soon as she turns back to Gwaine.

“Hello, Gwaine,” Lance says, stepping forwards, and it’s only with his words that Gwaine realises this is the first chance he’s had to do so, at least while Gwaine is sober. “How are you?”

“Hungover,” Gwaine tells him. “Tired, too,” he adds, then amends it slightly when he sees how large the shadows under Lance’s eyes are. “Probably a little better than you in that respect, though. And slightly less of a wreck than last time you saw me.”

Lance flinches ever so slightly, hesitating in his approach. “I am sor-”

“Don’t be,” Gwaine cuts in. “I didn’t mean it like that. You don’t have to apologise, mate.” He expects the look Lance gives him, weighty with guilt and sorrow and all those emotions Lance is so very, very good at, but he isn’t quite as prepared for Lance to lunge forwards and haul him into a hug. It’s startling, when Lance has never really been the type for spontaneous hugging, particularly not towards Gwaine, but he takes comfort in it anyway. At least for a few moments, after which point it starts to become a little uncomfortable. “You can let go now, you know.”

Lance releases him quickly, face still repentant. “It is not just that I am sorry for. I am here because Arthur wants you back in the city, for his wedding.”

“Since when did you call him Arthur?” Gwaine asks, but it’s not exactly an important question, really, particularly seeing as he knows the pr – _king_ – couldn’t care less if Gwaine is around for him getting married, and would probably prefer it if he wasn’t. “Why am I really being summoned?”

Lance shakes his head and lies valiantly. “That is all, I promise.” Of course, he ruins it by adding, “Please do not ask me again.”

Gwaine lets it go, somewhat reluctantly. Then again, his day has been long enough already; he can wait to find out whatever this is, and how much it will hurt him. He’ll try again later, or tomorrow, seeing as he has to leave regardless of what the actual reason for it is, and he knows nothing bad has happened to anyone he cares about. “My mother’s cooking lunch as we speak. Where’s Montague?”

“His room, I would think. He chose not to follow me any further than out of the kitchen, which is fortunate since he does not know about Merlin’s magic.” That feels a little bit like being scolded, Gwaine thinks, but what harm could telling his family possibly do? With Arthur as king, Merlin isn’t exactly at risk of execution, and Gwaine’s family aren’t in a position to do anything to endanger Merlin anyway. “Do you want me to go get him?”

Gwaine smiles despite the chiding, because of course Lance would offer, even if he can’t stand Montague. “I got it, mate. I’m a grown man; you don’t need to protect me from my mistakes.”

“Yes, I do,” Lance says with almost painful sincerity. “It is the only way I know to make amends for my own.”

Gwaine is pretty sure Lance’s surprise at being hugged far outweighs his own, but seeing as he doesn’t think Lance will take being called an idiot in the spirit it is intended it’s about the only response he can give.

X

Gaius’ patients split cleanly into two groups.

The first are those who inhabit the castle and, for the most part, they are not pleased to see Merlin instead of Gaius. Some frown, others glare, and – Merlin’s favourite – tiny Lord Morton, who stands no higher than Merlin’s chest, attempts in vain to peer over Merlin’s shoulder to see if Gaius is hiding behind him for some unknown reason. Merlin resists the temptation to laugh and pat him on the head as he hands over the salve that Gaius makes for those plagued by old wounds, mostly because he knows that for all the man dislikes him personally he got the wound in question fighting almost singlehandedly to defend his village against an invasion. He deserves a little respect, even if he’s terrible at showing it.

Then there are those living in the lower town, the vast majority of whom are friendly. Merlin turns down almost more cups of tea than he can count, gossips briefly about happenings in the castle (the wedding plans seem to be everybody’s favourite topic, and Merlin finds it so alarmingly easy to talk about them, so truly painless), and accepts one almost-tearful apology from the baker’s wife who cannot offer him a slice of cake, as she did whenever Merlin first delivered remedies years ago.

A few people ask him why he’s delivery things. Those in the first group conclude it with a demanding _where’s Gaius?_ , while those in the latter as why he isn’t rushing around after the king as usual. He answers both sets of questions with a shrug.

X

Lunch is a surprisingly sedate meal, despite the fact that it probably shouldn’t be, given how the day began.

Dinner, in contrast, is raucous, celebratory, and Gwaine knows it’s a farewell party for him. He’s never had one before, because he’s never actually bothered to say goodbye instead of sneaking out in the middle of the night. It’s nice, and it only takes two slices of a rather hastily baked cake before Molly stops sulking at him. Kids are so easily pleased, Gwaine thinks as she curls up in his lap, clutching his shirt in fists sticky with icing.

Gareth doesn’t leave his room.

X

Contrary to popular opinion, Merlin doesn’t actually like mornings. He doesn’t have anything against them, not really, but he’d rather not be awake. Unfortunately, he’s spent enough years attempting to be up early in order to wake Arthur, so here he is, up and about. On the plus side, today he has a plan.

Because he can’t do anything about the fact that Gwaine is being dragged back here; Merlin doesn’t know exactly where Gwaine’s house is, but if Arthur says Lancelot and Montague should be there by now, he’s probably right. So Gwaine is coming back, and the mere thought makes Merlin feel shaky with equal parts anticipation and fear and, more than anything, there is an overwhelming awareness that he needs to be completely in control of his magic. He knows Gwaine isn’t likely to get back together with him immediately, not after how Merlin treated him, and that it will take time and so much effort to convince him. But Merlin _will_ convince him, and when he does he needs to know he can keep his magic contained under his own skin rather running free in a way that Gwaine will be deeply uncomfortable with.

Which is the reason he is sneaking out of his room at Gaius’ before his almost-father wakes up (Merlin had dinner there last night, and seeing as he wasn’t heading back into the castle to pander to Arthur’s whims, he decided to stay where he was, despite the scratchy sheets and lumpy straw mattress) and up to Gwaine’s room. It feels a little odd, because while he’s made his way along that route more than once in the past, it’s always been in the opposite direction. The very few people around the castle at this hour give him the same odd looks they usually do, but no one comments on it (although Merlin suspects he’ll get a whole lot more looks and possibly questions next time he passes through the kitchen, where most of the gossip takes place).

Once he gets there, Merlin digs his armour out of Gwaine’s cupboard, noticing as he does that Gwaine’s is gone. Lancelot must have taken it, he thinks absently, then turns to leave. And it’s all fine, until he pauses to check there’s nothing else he’s going to need today and registers the mess. It’s something he misses most days, because he isn’t exactly the tidiest of people, and the scattering of clothing across Gwaine’s floor isn’t all that major by his standards. But it’s his clothing, all of it (Gwaine actually tidied up before he left, odd as that is, although Merlin might possibly have rummaged through his things for a shirt to curl up with when he found sleep to be a particularly elusive thing). Lance knows Merlin is staying here, and Merlin is so going to be lectured for this when they get back.

He can’t worry about that now, though, because he has his plan to think of. Merlin goes, locking the door behind him with a whisper, and makes his way back to Gaius’. The looks are a lot odder now, because while various occupants of the castle have been known to sneak from one room to another in the morning, they don’t tend to make the journey twice, particularly not carrying chainmail.

He leaves his armour in his room as quietly as he can – Gaius still doesn’t wake, which is a relief – then makes his way to the kitchens; he has a sneaky suspicion that Arthur hasn’t taken his quitting seriously and his conscience can’t allow him to let the idiot go hungry.

“Morning,” he yawns to the nicest of the head cooks, Ellis.

She smiles at him kindly, which is why Merlin makes an effort to seek her out every morning he’s in the kitchen before it gets too busy; it’s nice to have someone down there who doesn’t hate him for the odd accident he causes. “Good morning, Merlin. Nice to see you so early,” she teases.

He frowns at her, but doesn’t really mean it. “I was wondering if Ar- King Arthur had made arrangements for someone to bring him his breakfast this morning?”

“I was under the impression that that was your job,” Ellis replies, grinning in a _the maids will love me for this titbit_ way.

Merlin winces, because he so doesn’t want to be feeding the castle rumour mill, and the news that he’s temporarily not Arthur’s manservant will spread like wildfire. It is too late to do anything beyond tell as little of the truth as he can, though. “Not right now. I’m helping Gaius out for a few days, but I wanted to check that he wasn’t going to starve waiting for me to bring his meals. Could you get someone to sort his food out, please? And, you know, tidy up, and I’m fairly sure he’ll have forgotten that the massive stack of clothing on his floor needs washing.”

Ellis pats his hand gently, then loses a little of her kindness. “Did you have anyone in mind? Some particular person you desperately want to see cry?”

“It’s just for a couple of days, Ellis. Please?” Merlin pulls his most pitiful expression until her face softens, and then grins broadly. “He’s nowhere near as bad as he used to be, anyway. So long as they’re a little more inclined to follow orders than I am, they’ll be fine.”

X

Gwaine is all packed and ready to leave.

Not, of course, that packing was particularly tricky, seeing as all he had to do was bundle the few items he brought with him back into his bag and carefully extract all stuffed toys from his belongings (because at some point Molly will miss them, even if she hasn’t yet, even if she’s convinced that he ought to take Mister Bear with him). And then he pulls on his clothes and the armour Lance brought for him – it’s ridiculous, but he’s kind of missed the feeling of it when he’s been teaching Gareth, too used to the weight and the restriction to feel truly comfortable without it – and goes downstairs, knocking on Lance and Montague’s doors on his way. Together the three of them saddle their horses in the near dark, then troop inside for an absurdly huge breakfast.

It’s obscenely early, of course, but that hasn’t deterred his mother; anything that could possibly be served up for a breakfast is on the table, even though Gwaine’s entire family are still dressed in their nightwear. Entire family bar Gareth, at least, who Gwaine has seen neither hide nor hair of since he shouted at him yesterday morning.

“I’ll go get him,” Bertram offers, and Gwaine realises his glances at the empty seat are more noticeable than he’d thought.

“No, it’s fine,” Gwaine tells him. He figures he deserves the silence, and Gareth is well within his rights not to want to say goodbye to him; Gwaine lied about why he was home, lied about who he is, and left his family to explain his absence when the others showed up looking for him. “It’s his choice.”

Bertram looks at him sadly, like he can hear what Gwaine is thinking (frankly, after how much Bertram has somehow worked out about Gwaine while he’s been home, it probably wouldn’t surprise him too much if he could), but lets it pass, and they all finish eating in near silence.

And then there are hugs and farewells. Molly throws her arms around Gwaine’s legs no fewer than five times (and grabs onto Lance at least once as well, which serves well to amuse everyone but Lance himself) before Rebekah picks her up and holds on to her, patting her back as she sobs softly. Tears have always made Gwaine deeply uncomfortable, and his first response is usually to run away, particularly when they’re his fault. Instead, he holds his arms out and lets his niece cling to him, jiggling her up and down in his arms like he would a much smaller crying child.

“Hey,” he says quietly to her. “Stop with the tears, eh? I’ll come back, love, I promise.” Lance looks at him sharply, and Gwaine rolls his eyes, but figures getting her hopes up isn’t a good idea. “It might not be for a little while, probably a couple of years, but I’ll definitely come see you.”

Unsurprisingly, this doesn’t do a whole lot to comfort her, and he hands her back to her mother. Rebekah nods at him, then takes Molly elsewhere in an attempt to stop her crying.

Bertram steps forward and gives Gwaine a hug of his own. “Look after yourself, little brother,” he mutters, close enough to Gwaine’s ear that he’s probably the only one who heard it. It doesn’t feel condescending to be called that today, as it did when he first arrived; instead, it is just a statement of kinship, family, and Gwaine is glad he came back for that, at least, a level of friendship with his older brother than he’d never in the past thought possible. “Don’t go making yourself unhappy if you don’t have need to be,” Bertram finishes.

“Why’d I want to do that?” Gwaine asks, but he thinks he knows what Bertram means by it. He pulls back and clasps his brother’s shoulder, then turns to his mother, who is currently bidding farewell to Lance and Montague.

“Take care of my boy,” she instructs them firmly, shaking their hands, and to Gwaine’s surprise both of them nod. He thinks he should probably be offended by how everyone seems to be of the opinion that he needs taking care of, but then maybe he does, and maybe it’s just nice that there are people who care.

Gwaine drags out saying goodbye to his ma as long as possible, hoping that Gareth will appear to see him off. He doesn’t, and eventually Gwaine smiles, hugs her quickly, and says, “Sorry,” because it seems about the best thing to say. He doesn’t know why, but he is.

His ma cuffs him gently on the back of the head. “Idiot child,” she calls him, smile watery. “Your da would be proud of you. We all are. And don’t think we’re not going to hold you to your promise of visiting. If you’re not back here within two years, we’ll come to you.”

“I look forward to it,” Gwaine tells her. “Thank you, Ma. Tell ‘Reth...tell him I said goodbye.”

And that, really, is all there is to say. The three of them pick up the bags of food Gwaine’s mother has packed for them, Lance and Montague thanking her for her hospitality, and they go.

X

By the time Merlin succeeds in persuading Ellis to find someone to look after Arthur for a couple of days and has eaten breakfast with Gaius, it’s about the time he usually trails Arthur down to training. He begs off helping Gaius for the morning (with the promise that he’ll be back with lunch and will run errands in the afternoon) then lugs his mail down to the training cellar, carefully avoiding Arthur’s gaze when he gets there. Until Arthur realises that he’s doing it, at least, at which point he frowns, turns from Merlin, and shouts until the knights all fall into neat, orderly rows.

Merlin shrugs his armour over his head and stands on the sidelines, expecting Arthur to run the standard half hour of drills before pairing off the knights to fight each other, then drills again to cool off. It seems Arthur also realises this is what Merlin is expecting, because he glances at Merlin every few minutes of the extra half hour he drags the drills our for, frown growing a little darker each time he sees that Merlin has caught him at it. Eventually, when the knights seem ready to rebel, Arthur calls a halt; Merlin suspects it’s only so he can look like he has some tiny measure of control over them rather than having to stand powerless as they storm away.

Merlin steps forwards, making his way through the group and snagging Elyan’s sleeve before he can find someone to pair up with.

“Everything okay?” Elyan asks, allowing Merlin to tow him from the centre of the group to the outskirts.

“Yeah, mostly,” Merlin replies. “You said last week if I changed my mind about training with you all I should talk to you about it.”

Elyan blinks at him in surprise (justified, seeing as Merlin’s refusal had been fairly emphatic), then looks to his right. “Did you check with King Arthur?”

Merlin follows his gaze to find the pair of them the victims of one of Arthur’s more fearsome glares, and feels a little bad for unintentionally involving Elyan in his slight disagreement with the king. “I’m...temporarily not working for him. Just temporarily. We’re disagreeing over...over something.” Merlin doesn’t do too well at explaining things without actually explaining, but then everyone already knows that. Of course, it does mean Elyan squints at him in an attempt to work out what Merlin isn’t telling him, but even if Merlin did say that he was pissed at Arthur because he’s summoning Gwaine back to the city, he would have so much more to tell him that he doesn’t want to go into right now. “I was sort of hoping to...test my control.”

“And you think fighting is the way to go?” Elyan sounds wary, and Merlin supposes he can’t blame him.

He nods, and makes an attempt at reassurance. “You don’t have to agree if you don’t want to. I wouldn’t ask if I thought I couldn’t control it; I just need to be sure, before-I just need to be sure. I thought, if I could keep my magic under control when faced with how overwhelmingly bad I am, it’d be a sign that everything was alright.”

The stare Elyan fixes him with is just as intense as Arthur’s glares, although Merlin finds it a whole lot less intimidating. “Okay,” Elyan agrees, apparently finding whatever it is he wanted to in Merlin’s expression. “Why not? If you could do your best not to magically remove me from the kingdom, I’d really appreciate it.”

Merlin grins gratefully, and follows him to an even more out of the way part of the room, trying to ignore the prickling sensation on the back of his neck that tells him the pair of them are still the subject of Arthur’s focus.

X

Gareth is in the stables when they get there, standing sulkily next to a fourth saddled horse, and Gwaine really thinks he should have seen this coming. His younger brother doesn’t look at him at all, gaze flitting instead between Lance and Montague.

“Sir Lancelot,” he says, sounding a little meek, “Sir Montague. I was hoping to travel to Camelot with you, if it is not too much trouble.” Both of them turn to Gwaine, the look in Lance’s eyes one of curiosity, while Montague seems a little wary. Or they do, until Gareth states, a whole lot more certainly, “I asked the pair of you, not him. I don’t need _Sir_ _Gwaine’s_ permission.”

As much as that stings – it does, and how ridiculous that of all the things he’s done that his brother could hate him for, it turns out to be doing the one thing that his brother wants to do too that upsets him most –, Gwaine is gratified to know that neither of his them accept this, still waiting for Gwaine to respond. “Give us a minute, would you?” he asks, looking first at Lance, then at Montague. They don’t object, willingly leaving to wait outside the stables to allow Gwaine a moment with his brother.

“What?” Gareth snaps. “You can’t stop me if I want to go. Not after everything you’ve done.”

“Ma doesn’t know you’re here, does she?” Gwaine demands, because he so isn’t going to touch that one. Most times he laughs off comments about his behaviour, but...well, there are a few people whose opinions he actually cares about, and Gareth is one of them.

“You’re not in a position to lecture me about that,” Gareth says sullenly. “I’ve left a note, which is more than you’ve done sometimes.”

“Hmm,” Gwaine agrees, but he likes to think he’s better than all the times he has snuck away from home without letting them know. “Not good enough. Go tell her in person.”

It’s hypocritical, he knows, and Gareth’s frowning refusal tells him as much. “I don’t want to,” he mumbles, and oh, gods, is that a pout?

_Fine_ , Gwaine decides. If Gareth is going to act like a child, that’s how he’s going to treat him. “Tell her, or you’re not coming with us.”

“I said already, you can’t stop me. And I didn’t ask _you_ , anyway.”

“No, but if you didn’t notice, they both looked to me to decide.” That feels a little too much like he’s claiming authority over the others, and Gwaine knows that isn’t right: they all defer to Arthur, and to Leon most of the time, but in the hierarchy of knights there’s no way Gwaine is above Lance. Then again, ‘Reth is his family, which kind of makes him Gwaine’s responsibility. “Trust me, you’ll regret it if you don’t say goodbye, and I’m not having you make the same stupid mistakes I have. We’ll wait for you.”

Gwaine walks out of the stables before Gareth can reply, leaning back against the building beside Lance and Montague. They both look at him questioningly, but he shakes his head, waiting for Gareth to stomp out after him.

“I swear, if you aren’t here when I get back,” Gareth snarls, directly at him, but doesn’t have a threat to finish it with. He just glares, and Gwaine thinks that if he’d known finding out he was a knight was going to upset Gareth quite so much, he might have told him sooner. Or he’d have at least made an effort not to have it be quite so much of a surprise, seeing as telling wasn’t exactly easy.

“We’ll wait,” he repeats solemnly. “I promise.”

Gareth holds his glare for an unpleasantly long time – although, as glares go, Gareth’s isn’t all that scary – and Gwaine does his best to look sincere. After all, he is, and Gareth ought to know that. “You better,” Gareth says, still angry, and storms away.

“Care to explain?” Lance asks, as Gareth reaches the house.

“He wants to be a knight,” Gwaine replies, shrugging. “Our father died fighting for Caerleon, and what with how famous Arthur is, Gareth thought Camelot was the place to go. Saying no isn’t exactly fair, given that I’m one of you. It’s also more effort than it’s worth, and you’ll have noticed how stubborn he is.”

Lance’s expression clearly states that he considers Gwaine just as obnoxiously stubborn as his brother, but it doesn’t really bother him too much. In fact, he feels an overwhelming fondness for him, and that he can read Lance as well as everyone can apparently read him is deeply reassuring. “It’s good to be going back,” Gwaine tells him softly. “Thanks.”

Lance starts, surprised, but doesn’t say anything, and the three of them wait in silence until Gareth comes back outside, his face like thunder. His eyes are a little shiny, though, so Gwaine doesn’t ask what their mother said, just nods at everyone and goes into the stable to get his horse. “Let’s go, then.”

X

Training with Lancelot was not at all fun. Training with Elyan is even worse.

Merlin can imagine that in all other situations, that would be a bad thing, but he figures that if he can keep his magic contained under Elyan’s questionable tutelage (not his fault, because Merlin is well aware of how truly unteachable he is), he’s doing pretty well.

“Yes, thank you,” he says, when Elyan asks if he wants another lesson tomorrow.

X

Gareth doesn’t speak to Gwaine again for the whole of their first day of travelling, and by lunchtime Gwaine gives up trying to get him to.

In contrast, he talks almost non-stop to Lance and Montague, asking a whole lot of questions about Camelot: the city itself, Arthur (Gareth, like Montague, is always careful to include titles for Arthur, the knights and any other nobles who get mentioned), the test for becoming a knight, training, and everything else a person could possibly want to know. Lance is so very clearly feeling guilty about Gareth’s attention when Gwaine is being so completely ignored, but Montague seems to find it amusing. He glances across at Gwaine every now and again, wry humour on his face, and Gwaine really has no idea why, or why he fails so miserably at hiding his answering laughter.

Gods, it feels good to be going back.

By the time they stop that evening, the four of them eating food from their packs in the room they’re sharing for the night (two beds, the best the inn can offer them, and it is so very stupid that they end up bickering about who is going to sleep on the floor rather than who gets to sleep in the bed), Gareth has become aware of Montague’s amusement. The following day, he talks only to Lancelot, and Gwaine finds it even funnier.

Lance stops looking guilty, and seems instead to be trying to work out when Gwaine lost what little sanity he had left.

X

Merlin comes back to Gaius’ with their dinner, much the same as he has the other three evenings since he quit his job. He finds Leon, Elyan and Percival waiting in the middle of the workroom with their own plates, and no Gaius.

He puts the plates down, enchanting Gaius’ to stay warm until he gets back (seeing to Uther, Merlin suspects), takes a place at the table, and looks at the knights still standing there. “Let me guess,” he says, still not telling them to sit (they’ll work it out eventually, and he sort of wants to see how long they’ll stand for). “Arthur’s being an unbearable idiot towards you all, now that he doesn’t have me to boss around, and so you want me to go back to working for him.”

“We probably wouldn’t have phrased it quite like that,” Leon replies, perching opposite Merlin (he would be the first to move, of course, and Elyan and Percival follow suit almost immediately). “It is what we’re here for, though.”

“We’re all very sure you have a good reason for quitting,” Elyan rushes to tell him, sounding really rather rehearsed. “Everyone is some combination of impressed and deeply awed that you managed to stay working for him so long. You don’t even need to tell us why you quit, no one expects you to.”

“No, you’d just like me to go back so he can take his anger out on me instead of you all.” Merlin says it mostly to make them look as awkward as they all promptly do, then smiles. “It’s fine, I wasn’t intending to quit permanently.”

“Good to know,” Leon tells him. “It’s not just us asking, either. The others nominated us, and they’ll be just as grateful as we are.”

Now that, Merlin thinks, is a shame. He’d have loved to have some of the more obnoxiously superior knights in here begging him to go back to work, although the temptation to refuse would probably have been too great for him to have had a remotely serious discussion about it. It’s probably best that his friends be the ones to ask, if he wants to avoid any sort of argument, but it still would have been nice.

“I’ll start back tomorrow, I suppose,” he concedes, because it has to be long enough for Arthur to realise just how angry Merlin is about this. Or was, because his anger faded pretty quickly, replaced by something that is rapidly becoming excitement.

They sag, visibly relieved, and tuck into their meals enthusiastically. “Thank you,” Percival says, slow and soft and grateful, then breaks out into an unexpectedly bright smile. “It would be the right day to do so. King Arthur told me to volunteer to train with you tomorrow to give Elyan a break.”

Merlin winces, then kicks himself for it. Percival is an excellent guy, very nice, and Merlin really doesn’t want to offend him. At the same time, though, he _really_ doesn’t want to fight him either. And then he looks up to gauge how offended Percival is, and sees the three of them carefully avoiding each other’s eyes and trying not to laugh. “You’re asking me for help,” he reminds them. “A little less teasing would be nice.”

“Sorry,” Percival says, striving desperately to keep a straight face.

Elyan cracks first, mumbling the words, “Your face...” in the middle of his snickers, which sends the other two into gales of laughter as well.

Merlin feels no guilt whatsoever for levitating the remains of their meals to his own plate and digging in.

X

“Good morning,” Merlin chirps, putting as much effort as he can into be noisy. He magics the fire into being with a loud whoosh, then clatters Arthur’s plate down on the table. Arthur groans loudly, and Merlin assumes that he hasn’t yet realised what all the noise means. “Oi,” he says. “Get up, Your Majesty.”

When another couple of minutes go by with no sign of Arthur welcoming consciousness with any level of enthusiasm, Merlin walks right up to the side of his bed (all his sneaking around at night means he has excellent night vision, so the fact that the room is still only lit by the fire isn’t really an obstacle) and leans down. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he tells him softly, sarcastically sweet, then walks over to the closest window. It is a delightfully sunny day outside, the brightness multiplied by the still lingering snow, which makes Merlin’s decision to open all the curtains at once even more effective.

“ _Mer_ lin!” Arthur snaps, sitting up. He scrubs at his face, eyes closed tightly, then stills. “Merlin?”

“That would be me, yes,” Merlin grins, sitting in one of the seats at the table, because if he stays standing until Arthur gets up his legs will stop cooperating.

Arthur makes the mistake of opening both eyes to look at him in the glaring brightness. He scrunches them closed again, wincing, then opens the left one very, very slowly. The right follows eventually, and he states at Merlin curiously. “You’re back?”

“It would seem so, sire.”

“I knew you’d come running back here soon enough,” Arthur says. Merlin applies his many years of experience in conversing with him to interpret this as _I’m glad you’re back_ , and figures it’s the closest thing to an apology he’s going to get. Particularly seeing as Arthur decides it’s a good idea to continue. “You’ve no idea what to do without me telling you.”

“And yet I seemed to manage just fine, didn’t I?” Merlin answers, despite the fact that it’s only falling back into the habit of letting Gaius make demands on his free time that has kept him busy (and the need to know that he can keep his magic controlled enough to be able to sleep with Gwaine again without it freaking him out, and he definitely isn’t saying that to Arthur). “If you’d like to get out of bed at some point, your breakfast is waiting for you.”

Arthur stands begrudgingly, despite the fact that he normally complains about Merlin’s lateness, but then Merlin has known for quite a long time that Arthur isn’t happy with half of what Merlin does, and pretends not to be happy with the rest of it. “Have you eaten?” he asks – although it sounds a whole lot more like a demand – and slumps in his seat, staring at the single plate before him.

“With Gaius, yes,” Merlin answers absently, making his way over to Arthur’s wardrobe. Whoever replaced briefly replaced him as Arthur’s manservant has completely destroyed his system of organisation (yes, he does have one, even if only he understands it), but they do appear to have washed everything, saving him quite a lot of work. He digs some clothes out for Arthur to wear, laying them on the bed, and then ducks his head back into the wardrobe and starts trying to put things right.

“Did you get enough food?” Arthur prompts when Merlin doesn’t say anything further about his meal (largely because he hadn’t thought elaborating was at all necessary).

“Your concern for my eating habits is a lot more disturbing than it is touching, you know,” Merlin replies, mentally calculating how many times Arthur has made comments linking Merlin to food over the last couple of weeks. It’s definitely more than normal, he thinks, but can’t decide if that’s odd enough to be worrying. “Anyone would think you were trying to fatten me up,” he jokes, then turns to stare at Arthur when he doesn’t produce some sarcastic reply. The king is all shifty and suddenly very interested in his breakfast, and Merlin wonders if he’s accidentally hit the mark with that remark. “ _Are_ you trying to fatten me up, sire? And please be aware that answering _yes_ will require an explanation, and answering _no_ will lead to another argument about you lying to me.”

Arthur looks up, wearing that _I’m not going to change my mind_ expression of stubbornness that never leads to anything good happening. Merlin stares anyway, determined to wait him out without giving in to his unwillingness to reply. “You’re too thin,” Arthur says after a moment. “You’ve lost more weight than most of us since the rationing started.”

Merlin doubts this, given how much thinner than most of Arthur’s closer acquaintances he was to start with, but it isn’t his top priority right now. “And yet you’ve only started commenting on it lately,” he points out instead. “Why?”

Arthur’s goes back to trying to avoid his eyes again, and Merlin repeats it. “ _Why_ , Arthur?”

The king resists a moment longer, then mumbles a reply that Merlin is only half sure he caught.

“Could you say that again that, please?” he asks, not certain enough to repeat the words he thinks he heard. He has a tendency to hear Gwaine’s name at odd occasions, after all, and he thinks this is probably one of them.

Arthur glares at him, then softens when he realises Merlin’s request is actually serious. “I said that Gwaine will be back soon,” he says, holding Merlin’s eyes reluctantly. “I don’t really want to explain why you look like a very hungry stick, because chances are he’ll think I should have done a better job of feeding you.”

Merlin stares, tells himself to stop, and is appalled to find out that he can’t. “I don’t understand how your mind works,” he states, when it becomes completely apparent that that really is what Arthur said. The things Arthur worries about baffle him, they really do; it would be one thing for Arthur to be quizzing him about his meals out of some kind of peculiar concern, but that he’s worried what Gwaine will say is a whole new level of madness. “How about you stick to being king,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes, “And let me worry about what Gwaine thinks about me, okay? Now, eat your breakfast, and we’ll both be a whole lot happier pretending you have no interest in my love life whatsoever.”

X

“How far away are we now?” Gareth asks, and it is only the fact that his excitement sounds a whole lot less present than it has for the last four days that prevents Lancelot from snapping at him. He has tried, since they left Gwaine’s house, not to lose his patience with the boy, because he is only a child, really, and this is – or so Gwaine said with a soft apology on the second day of travelling – the first time he has left his home for any real length of time.

Gwaine looks at him frequently like he has an unnecessary level of tolerance, and Montague asks whenever Gareth is out of hearing-range why he does not just ask him to shut up. The truth is, Lancelot does not know, beyond the fact that Gwaine seems to be getting on well enough with Montague, and he would rather just leave them to it, allowing them to work out the unspoken terms of their peculiar truce without interference. After all, if Merlin can befriend the man Gwaine slept with, Lancelot does not really see why he should involve himself in Gwaine’s apparent decision to do the same.

“We should be there tomorrow evening, I believe,” Lancelot says, and hears Gareth suck in a startled gasp. “Sooner than you had expected?” he asks, assuming that is the cause for his surprise.

“A little,” Gareth replies, his voice not remotely excited now.

Gwaine, riding with Montague just ahead of them, halts, and Lancelot supposes it was a good thing he answered without snapping, because Gwaine clearly thinks this cause for concern. “You alright, ‘Reth?” he calls, nudging his horse into motion next to his brother’s.

“I’m fine,” Gareth says, slightly less surly than usual (he stopped ignoring Gwaine and Montague yesterday, although he continues to pose the vast majority of his questions to Lancelot).

“There’s nothing wrong with missing home,” Gwaine tells him kindly. He reaches a hand out to Gareth, an act that does not go down well; Gareth shies away, and Lancelot has to stop completely to avoid a collision or his horse stumbling off the path. “It’s fine, really.”

Gareth looks at him, and although Lancelot cannot see his expression he suspects it is not a calm one. “I don’t miss it,” Gareth snaps. “I’m glad to be leaving.”

“No reason you can’t miss it anyway,” Gwaine says, shrugging, but decides against saying anything else. He rides on a little to catch up with Montague, allowing Lancelot to fall back into place next to Gareth.

For the next couple of hours, they travel in easy, blessed silence. Lancelot finds it a little worrisome, because experience tells him that neither Gwaine nor Montague is remotely good at being quiet, and Gwaine’s frequent glances backwards – poorly concealed – suggest it is not Gareth’s strong point either. At the same time, it is a relief, just for a little while, not to be subjected to incessant questions or inane chatter.

They pause briefly to refill their wineskins from a stream feeding a small lake, not too far from the inn Lancelot intends to be their destination for the night. It does not seem all that significant to Lancelot, but Gwaine takes hold of his arm before he can remount his horse and says, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Lancelot looks at him, expecting from his tone that his expression will be fairly light, but it is not. Gwaine is certainly making an effort at it, but his shoulders are stiff and there is an intensity in his eyes that seems to be some combination of concern and trepidation. He nods, allowing Gwaine to lead him away from the path a little way. “What is it?” he asks when Gwaine stops, trying to sound patient.

“I wanted to know where we’re stopping tonight,” Gwaine replies, his words not quite making it into the realm of a question. He is not meeting Lancelot’s eyes, either, gaze flicking between points over each of his shoulders. Montague and Gareth are waiting with their horses to Lancelot’s right, but Lancelot glances to his left more than once and still is not sure what Gwaine sees there; a few leafless trees, a whole lot of snow, and a frozen lake, but nothing else.

Then again, Gwaine has become more on edge as the day has progressed, and on one notable occasion Lancelot saw him quite obviously shy away from Montague, despite how easily he has tolerated his presence up until recently. Lancelot puts it down to the fact that they are now very close to the city, assumes Gwaine is most likely feeling more than a little nervous, and decides not to ask about it. “There is a village not far from here, an hour or two away. Maybridge, or something like that. It is about a day’s ride from the city.”

“A long day,” Gwaine says, acting like he did not flinch when Lancelot named the place (then again, Lancelot is not challenging him about the pretence, either). “Isn’t it better to stop sooner tonight, even if it takes a bit longer that you’d planned to get back?” Lancelot waits a moment, rather hoping that Gwaine will elaborate without requiring prompting. There has to be more to this than a desire not to have to ride too far in a single day, and Lancelot does not believe it is just nerves either. “I’m worried about Gareth,” Gwaine adds eventually.

That does not require saying, Lancelot thinks, but does not voice it. Gwaine’s concern for his brother is perfectly apparent, even half-hidden by his amusement at the interrogation Lancelot has endured since they left Gwaine’s home and the slight expression of hurt Lancelot catches on Gwaine’s face when he thinks no one is watching.

“You remember asking why Arthur wants you back in Camelot, of course,” Lancelot says to him, because this is more than concern, too. “Do you think I cannot see that you are lying now just as clearly as you could see that I did not tell you everything then?” It is a risk mentioning this in his argument, because Lancelot has promised himself most sincerely that he will not involve himself in Gwaine and Merlin’s relationship – telling Gwaine that Arthur wishes him to return to the city because he believes it will make Merlin happier is definitely involvement – but, as he had hoped, Gwaine does not take this as an opportunity to ask again.

“I’m not lying,” he states firmly instead. “I am worried, and I do think it’s better we stop earlier.”

“I’m sure you do,” Lancelot concedes willingly. “Perhaps you are not lying in the strictest sense, but neither of us has said everything.”

This time, Gwaine does not fill the gap Lancelot leaves him, eyes drifting ever more frequently from Lancelot’s left to his right and back again. Lancelot makes an effort to stare him down, but short of grabbing Gwaine’s face and forcing him to look at him, there is very little he can do, given Gwaine’s newly discovered aversion to eye contact. He needs to make another concession, then, and perhaps he owes it to Gwaine to just trust him when he says not to do something.

“I will not ask you again if you do not wish me to,” Lancelot grants, sighing softly. “Promise me that you have a good reason not to want to stay there, and I will let it go.”

Gwaine’s eyes snap onto him, surprise slowly changing into gratitude. “I promise,” he says, breaking into a grin slightly less sturdy than it could be, but very definitely a grin. “Thanks, Lance.”

Lancelot nods, making his way back to the horses, Gwaine following. “Where do you want us to stop instead?” he asks, because if he is going to change his plans to please Gwaine, it becomes Gwaine’s responsibility to find them an alternative destination.

“Ask Montague,” Gwaine shrugs. “He probably knows this area better than me.” He raises his voice a little and calls, “Hey, you know somewhere that can put up the four of us tonight?”

Lancelot observes the appraising look Montague gives Gwaine, no entirely sure what is going on. He does not know what the look is about, or why Gwaine thinks Montague is likely to know where they are and what is near them. Except he does, maybe, when he thinks about it, because Gwaine is acting more than a little uneasy, keeping more of a distance between he and Montague, and while he wants to drag out reaching Camelot, Lancelot thinks that is only an accidental result of wanting to avoid the inn Lancelot has picked out for that night.

It takes him a little longer to put the facts together than it perhaps should do, and then Lancelot finds himself feeling sympathy for Gwaine, whose life has been the very definition of his mistakes coming back to haunt him since Montague showed up in his kitchen. It is a tempered by exasperation, because Gwaine truly is an idiot for thinking he could just be with someone else mere days after he and Merlin broke up without being hurt by it.

Montague does not ask for a reason for the change in their plans, confirming Lancelot’s belief about as firmly as asking about it would, and asking is not something Lancelot has any desire to do. He leads them to a small town a short distance out of their way (it will add an hour or two to their journey, but then stopping early is already extending the journey into an additional day) with a slightly dingy tavern run by a very pleasant couple. It is not all that busy a place, but they opt to share a single room again rather than attempt to produce some sort of room sharing arrangement that everyone will be happy with (Gwaine, for obvious reasons, does not want to share with Montague, Lancelot would really rather not if given the choice, and – whilst Gareth himself would probably not have a problem with it – Gwaine has spent much of the journey placing himself between his brother and Montague, although Lancelot thinks he is not doing so consciously).

They leave their belongings in their room, returning to the main room to get food (their supplies ran out the previous evening). Lancelot nudges Gwaine and Montague towards the bar, because Gwaine’s twitchiness has lessened now that he knows they will not be stopping at the inn where he first met Montague. He takes a seat at a largely isolated table with Gareth, staring absently at the young man.

“Can I help you?” Gareth asks after a minute, just a little bit of hostility in his voice (so much less than all the times he has addressed Gwaine, and a little less than when he speaks to Montague).

Lancelot hesitates before replying, because he has no intention to pry into matters Gwaine does not want him to pry into. He let Gwaine’s wish not to stay in the inn Lancelot had selected pass without requesting explanation – partially because he was capable of working it out himself – and does not wish to involve himself in anything Gwaine may do with Merlin when they get back either. Then again, Gwaine has not specifically requested Lancelot not to talk to his brother about him, and Lancelot cannot imagine that this will cause any damage to Gwaine, and certainly not to the same extent to which talking to Merlin hurt him.

“Yes,” Lancelot says, making his decision. “I was wondering, after how emphatically you attempted to defend your brother from us when we first arrived at your house, why you are being so unpleasant to him now.” It sounds a little more judgemental than Lancelot had intended it to, but he cannot think of a word beyond _unpleasant_ that fits Gareth’s behaviour.

Gareth gawps a little, then looks deeply hurt. “I didn’t know he didn’t need defending then,” he says, sad and sullen. “If I had, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Why not?” Lancelot asks him, shaking his head as slightly as he can when he sees Gwaine turn to return to the table. Gwaine squints confusedly at him, but stays away. “Gwaine did not tell you because it was the only way he could see to protect himself.”

“Protect himself from what?” Gareth cuts in, scornful and sceptical.

Lancelot frowns a little until Gareth looks away from him, eyes downcast, and Lancelot finds himself oddly flattered that the boy looks up to him enough that his censure shames him, even if it is only because of his rank. “If he had told you that he was a knight, he would have to have told you why he left, and I do not believe he thought he could.”

Gareth does not like that, Lancelot gathers, given the way he looks up again. “He told Bertram,” he says, and it seems those words break some sort of dam. “Gwaine _hated_ Bertie for years, and Bertram didn’t like him either. He lied to me and to our mother but he just told Bertram _everything_. We were worried about him, thinking he was hiding with us for months because something awful had happened, and he didn’t tell us anything!”

That silences Lancelot briefly, because it is a far more flattering reason for Gareth’s anger than anything he had been expecting. It is actually a little sweet, he thinks, that Gareth is annoyed not only because Gwaine lied to him and left him worrying but because he thinks he told their other brother but not him. He wishes, just for a moment, that he had grown up with siblings, because while he loves Merlin and the others just as much as if they were actually his brothers, it is not the same as it would be if they actually were. “Gareth,” he says as gently as he can. “Gwaine didn’t tell Bertram. Bertram told me himself that he worked it out on his own.”

“Really?” Gareth asks, some peculiar mix of doubt and hope staining his face. “Gwaine didn’t tell him either?”

“I promise,” Lancelot says solemnly.

“Oh,” Gareth replies, apparently deciding to take Lancelot at his word. Such immediate trust is disconcerting, and Lancelot makes a note to tell Gwaine to keep a close eye on his brother when they reach Camelot; he can only assume it is his station as a knight that has Gareth clinging to his every word, and there are a number of knights who Lancelot does not believe ought to be trusted with such blind faith.

“Do you think you could stop treating him as you are, now that you know this?” Lancelot asks, because he has no qualms about taking advantage of Gareth’s apparent case of hero-worship if it will benefit the people he cares about and not do anyone any harm.

Gareth nods slowly, offering a small smile to Lancelot. Lancelot returns it, and Gareth breaks into a broad grin, reassured somehow by his conversation with Lancelot.

Lancelot beckons Gwaine over, moving his chair around the table so that Gwaine and Montague can join them again. Gwaine looks pleased to have friendly attention from his brother again, placing a hand on Lancelot’s arm as they stand up to make their way to their room later on, squeezing gratefully. Lancelot nods, saying nothing, happy that he has at least managed to help Gwaine with some small problem, and carries on walking.

X

“Gwaine?” Gareth mumbles to him as they prepare to set off on the morning of the day they’ll reach Camelot. “I-I know I’m not good enough to be one of you yet. So I was...you’ll still have time to teach me when we get there, won’t you?”

Gwaine looks at him, surprised by how young and uncertain he is. Gareth seems to be expecting Gwaine to ignore him, or treat him in the same grumpy way Gareth has been treating him up until whatever Lancelot said to him the day before yesterday, and maybe in the past he would have done. But today, when he’s jittery with anticipation, when Camelot is so close he can almost smell it, he doesn’t want to. He’s back home, almost, and being irritated at his brother for being justifiably irritated at him isn’t worth the effort. “Sure, ‘Reth,” he says, hugging him briefly before turning back to his work with a grin. “Hurry up,” he adds. “We should be there before lunch.”

X

Merlin stands at the window with the best view of the courtyard, the one at the top of the stairs next to the freaky statue that Arthur has never told him what it’s of even though Merlin has asked him loads of times. He’s found himself lurking there an awful lot over the past few days, since Arthur told him where he’d sent Lancelot and Montague, pausing at that window each time he passes it (and he never realised how many times he passes that window until he started being there all the time, getting in the way of knights and servants and Uther that one time, which had been more than a little awkward). He doesn’t know why, because the chances of him standing there at the exact moment Gwaine rides up to the castle are pretty minimal, but he is.

And yet, there he is today, standing with Arthur’s lunch platter steadily cooling in his hands (Arthur has grown used to cold meals, and Merlin refuses to reheat them magically because even if he’s too happy about Gwaine coming back to actually be mad at him he’s making a principled pretence), watching and waiting. There he is, staring outside as the guards open the gate to the courtyard and three figures in red cloaks and armour ride in, alongside a fourth wearing simple clothes and a brown cloak.

Merlin’s fingers lose their grip, the plate slipping from them as he stares out at Gwaine (and Lancelot, Montague, the younger man with them, Arthur making his way down the castle stairs to meet then, but mostly Gwaine). He sends out his magic to catch it instinctively, some sort of invisible net forming over it to stop Arthur’s lunch spilling everywhere, then lowers it to the floor by his feet, all without looking down. He is too busy staring, gawping, cataloguing the ways in which Gwaine has changed and the ways in which he hasn’t.

He is not taller – but then why would he be? – and Merlin is pleased to see that he doesn’t look any thinner either. His hair is longer, scruffier, but then they’ve been travelling for however many days. He is still so very gorgeous, Merlin thinks, and his smile...Merlin isn’t close enough to tell if it’s truly genuine, but he’s about as sure as he can be that it is, which has to mean that Gwaine is happy to be back here, doesn’t it?

Merlin realises that he is standing pressed against the wall, his right palm on the window. It would take almost no effort to run down those stairs and be there, face to face with Gwaine, but...he hesitates a second, watching and waiting as Gwaine launches himself off his horse and bows in what may actually be a sincere way. Lance and Montague dismount and bow as well, both with definite respect, and the man they’re with follows suit, sheer wonder on his face. Merlin remembers that feeling, his first sighting of Camelot and thinking how beautiful it is, how large, how very different to Ealdor.

Gwaine steps forwards, quite determinedly putting himself between Arthur and the stranger. He says something, but Merlin can’t hear the words, and even if he could he’d be looking at Gwaine’s gestures instead. It is so familiar, because he has done it for Merlin so many times, the way Gwaine angles himself so that his back is always to the person he wants to protect, hand lingering in the region of his sword, close enough for him to draw quickly it if he feels it necessary but not so close that it looks like he’s going to threaten the king. He recognises what Gwaine is doing, but he has never seen Gwaine do that for someone else, has never known Gwaine to be so protective of someone other than him.

Merlin wonders who he is, this man – younger than Merlin himself – who has travelled here with his friends and the man he loves, because he clearly isn’t just someone they’ve picked up on the way. Gwaine knows him well, Gwaine _cares_ about him, and Merlin is...bugger it, Merlin is jealous again, this time with a whole lot less reason.

He moves his eyes from Gwaine and the man he’s standing in front of – and introducing, if the way he half-turns and gestures is any indication – to Arthur. The king’s back is tense, shoulders set, like the words he’s hearing aren’t anything he wants to be hearing. Merlin can tell he doesn’t like it, whatever _it_ is, even without being able to see Arthur’s face, and has to wonder just what Gwaine is saying to piss off Arthur. Or saying this time, at least, because Merlin is sure this will be just one of many occasions on which Gwaine irritates Arthur now that he’s back.

After a moment or two, Arthur nods stiffly, and Gwaine addresses a few words to Lancelot, whose expression is only a little disapproving, nothing to indicate he’s as displeased with Gwaine as Arthur is. Gwaine clasps a hand on his unknown friend’s arm as he speaks to him, and then Lancelot leads this person past the king and up the steps into the castle.

It is only as they do so that Merlin realises he has been seen; Montague is staring up at him, a frown on his face. He raises a hand and waves to Merlin, pulling Arthur and Gwaine from whatever they’re talking about now. Arthur turns, and Gwaine’s head snaps up so quickly Merlin thinks he’ll do himself harm if he’s not careful. He takes a step back out of their sight without knowing why, and finds his eyes fixed on the print his hand has left on the window, the whorls of his fingertips visible, surrounded by a thin mist that fades as he looks at it.

Merlin takes a deep breath, drawing in as much air as he can before stepping back into sight of the courtyard, eager and bright and wanting to see Gwaine again, wanting Gwaine to see him again. In his mind, it plays out like one of the romantic ballads he’s occasionally heard minstrels sing: he steps forwards, standing there until Gwaine’s eyes find him, until they meet and stare, stare, stare before bursting into motion, Merlin running down the stairs next to him, Gwaine meeting him at the bottom and wrapping their arms around each other, kissing and kissing and kissing until air becomes a problem.

In reality, he has stayed back a little too long. Gwaine has ceased looking for him, leading his horse and the stranger’s away towards the stables. Arthur follows him – Merlin suspects he’s still talking, given the firm waving of his hands – and Montague remains, holding the reins of his own horse and Lancelot’s. He drops the latter to beckon to Merlin, picking it up again as he waits.

Merlin shakes his head, wondering if there’s some way he can tell Montague that he’ll talk to him later that doesn’t require his magic, but he can’t think of one. He waves, flapping his hand in a _go_ _away_ gesture, the closest he can get to what he means, smiling in the hope that Montague doesn’t take it the wrong way. Montague returns his smile, nods, and leads the horses away.

Merlin makes his way to Gwaine’s room to clear away the mess he’s left there – disorganised of him, maybe, but then he didn’t know exactly when Gwaine was going to get back – before Gwaine heads up there to unpack his bag. He likes the idea of dragging out the anticipation of actually speaking to Gwaine again, not from fear but because it is thrilling to make himself wait, and catching Gwaine alone will be so much better than running after him now and talking to him with Arthur, Montague and various stable hands bearing witness.

He will tidy up after himself, then return to Gwaine’s room once he’s sure Gwaine is there alone, because as delightful as the idea of waiting naked in Gwaine’s bed is, it’s probably better if they actually have something along the lines of a conversation first.

X

Gwaine’s palms are sweating horribly as they pause at the gates to the main courtyard long enough for the guards to let them in, and for the messenger sent earlier from the front gate to inform Arthur of their return. His gloves are stuck to his hands – so very uncomfortable, and if it wasn’t so freaking cold out he would take them off – but, he thinks, the overall moisture level of his body is kept constant by the fact that his mouth is as dry as a bone.

Gods, he can’t remember ever feeling quite this nervous.

The gate opens and Lance glances at him, head tilted to one side, so clearly asking, _do you want me to go first?_ Gwaine smiles, shakes his head, and takes the lead because, yeah, he’s nervous, but he’s no coward. Gareth falls in next to him, Lance and Montague just behind, the four of them halting at the bottom of the steps just as Arthur descends them.

“Morning, Arthur,” Gwaine calls, dismounting, then figures he ought to add a bow to make up for a little of his rudeness (and maybe to set a good example for his brother, although ‘Reth so clearly has other people – Lancelot – to hero-worship now). “I hear congratulations are in order, sire.”

Arthur smiles tightly, unappreciatively. “Sir Gwaine,” he says, nodding at him, then at the others. “Lancelot, Sir Montague. And friend, apparently.”

Gwaine looks back over his shoulder in time to see the look of delight and wonder on his brother’s face as he bows as well, staring at the castle and the courtyard and the king. Arthur frowns, deeply, and Gwaine finds himself stepping between them, drawing Arthur’s ire back to himself.

“This is Gareth,” he says, glancing back at his brother, hoping that he isn’t about to take this the wrong way. Because his family might know about what he is, and Lance and Montague might know of his lineage, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to tell everyone just yet. And it’ll be a whole lot easier for Gareth to get in with the knights if they all know he’s from a noble bloodline, which means Gwaine isn’t going to be saying they’re related. It’s not something he can keep quiet for long, obviously, but he’d like a little time to get used to being back again before the truth comes out and everyone starts treating him differently because of it. “Third son of Lord Lot and Lady Anna, of Caerleon. He’ll be staying with me; I’m helping him train to join the knights.”

Arthur stares, glares and – eventually – nods, although Gwaine reckons that won’t be the last he’s going to hear of this. Better Gareth isn’t around when Arthur starts in on him, he decides, and turns to Lance. “Can you take ‘Reth up to my room, please?”

Lance frowns, and Gwaine figures he’s wanting something a little closer to the truth, but he doesn’t really care too much. It’s his family, after all, and he can keep it quiet if he wants to, if Gareth doesn’t have any huge objection to it. He grins at Gareth, squeezing his arm, and shove him gently in the direction of Lance with a promise to see him up in his room once he’s stabled their horses.

He’s still waiting for Arthur to say something else when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Montague is waving up at someone inside, and Gwaine’s mind flies back to Montague talking about how almost no one here can stand him, no one but Merlin, and he’s staring, searching, because Merlin is somewhere watching him.

He’s been avoiding thinking about him, finding it so much easier not to wonder about Merlin, what Merlin thinks of him, what Merlin thinks about seeing him again, when Gwaine isn’t going to be with him in anything more than a friendly sense. But, now that he’s thinking about Merlin, he can’t stop, can’t not let his brain wrap itself in memories of him as his eyes dart from window to the next, skimming floors from one end to the other.

What he can do is stop himself searching, stop his hopes from rising too high, stop his heart from breaking all over again.

Gwaine turns his back on the castle, leading his and Gareth’s horses towards the stables, starting a countdown in his mind as he goes. _Three, two, one..._

“What,” Arthur demands, striding after him, voice so very far from calm, “Do you think you’re doing, Gwaine, bringing a stranger back here?”

X

Merlin hurries to Gwaine’s room and shuts the door behind him, scooping up all the clothes he’s left lying around on the floor and dumping them in a heap on the bed. He moves to the wardrobe after that, digging out what little of his things are in there and folding them semi-neatly.

And then he recalls that he’s been sleeping in Gwaine’s bed on and off for a couple of weeks since he last changed the bedding, which gives him another task before Gwaine shows up. Because he has to be out of here by then, has to have erased all signs of his presence, because Gwaine can’t know how much of a hypocrite he is, sending Gwaine fleeing from the city only to continue staying in his room whenever he felt like it.

The clothes end up in the basket for laundry and he tugs the sheets from the bed with his magic, digging clean ones from the chest at the foot of the bed by hand at the same time. He heaps the dirty linens together, magically neatening up the fresh ones and...oh. The door is already opening, and there is Gwaine’s friend, standing in the doorway holding a bag. Alone. Without Gwaine.

“Oh,” he says, staring at Merlin in surprise, and he looks even younger up close, younger than Merlin is (too young for Gwaine, Merlin thinks, and shuts that thought off very quickly because that might not be what this is and even if it is Merlin can’t think about it). “Sorry, I must have followed Sir Lancelot’s directions wrong. I was looking for Gwaine’s room?”

“No,” Merlin answers quietly, forcing a smile even as he notes that Lancelot is a Sir and Gwaine is just Gwaine to this boy. “This is his room. I’m just tidying up a bit.” He puts the basket in his arms down and sticks a hand out, trying to be friendly (calm, controlled), rather than drastically (dangerously) hostile. “I’m Merlin.”

So, okay, he’s hoping to get a little more information from the boy, something along the lines of _I’m So-and-so, and while I’m leaving a bag in Gwaine’s bedroom I will be sleeping here in an entirely non-sexual way (and I’m also willing to find somewhere else to stay, if you happen to want to be sleeping in here with Gwaine)_. It fails, though, because what he actually gets is a very amazed, “Wow. Really?”

Merlin lowers his hand – apparently he isn’t going to get a handshake, and maybe that’s a good thing because he’s feeling a little bit sparky right now – and picks the basket back up, unhappy with the scrutiny. “Yes,” he says, standing up as tall as he can (oh, hell, he’s behaving like Arthur, trying to be intimidating, and how stupid is that? On the plus side, he’s not doing it magically, but it’s still _stupid_ , and entirely beyond his control).

“Wow,” the boy repeats. “Gwaine’s told me so much about you.”

“Has he?” Merlin hedges, edging slowly towards the door, even though he can’t leave through it because Gwaine’s friend is standing there still.

“Yep,” Gwaine’s friend tells him, nodding furiously. “About your” – he glances around him, lowering his voice even though they’re the only ones there – “magic, and saving everyone’s lives all the time.”

Merlin feels betrayed, unpleasantly so, more than he was when he learnt that Gwaine slept with Montague, because this...Gwaine owed him nothing when he left, was free to share a bed with whoever he wants – still is, and Merlin truly hates that fact – but this is _Merlin’s_ secret, and telling someone risks Merlin’s life. Telling anyone is stupid, and telling the wrong person is pretty much like trying to get Merlin murdered.

Gwaine must really trust this boy, Merlin surmises, because that idea hurts much less than the impossibility ( _please_ , let it be an impossibility) that Gwaine doesn’t care about him anymore.

“Has he?” Merlin repeats, because it is so much safer than saying anything else.

The boy nods again, just as furiously, and stares some more. Stares for ages, actually, and Merlin feels like an animal in a cage, both because of the look and the fact that he’s still trapped here. “I’m Gareth,” he says eventually. “Gwaine’s- I’m staying here with Gwaine.”

“That’s nice,” Merlin tells him, flat and expressionless, because of course it is anything but. “I have to go now,” he announces, abruptly, “So if you could move out of my way, please.”

Gareth nods, stepping aside, and starts with an apology, but Merlin is already gone.

X

Gwaine thinks he deals fairly well with Arthur’s long, _long_ rant about the presence of Gareth in the city. He even manages to nod politely, smile as blandly as he can, and keep to himself the fact that he thinks Arthur is making a fuss about nothing; people come and go from the city all the time, and there’s no reason a young noble can’t try out for the knights, or be trained until he’s good enough to try out.

He has long unsaddled and brushed down both his and Gareth’s horses by the time Arthur eventually runs out of steam, picking his travelling bag back up again when the king stops for breath and making his way to the door of the stall he’s in. “I’ll take all this into consideration, sire,” he says, although he has no idea what point he’s supposed to be taking from Arthur’s speech. “If I may leave now, though, because Gareth will be wondering where I’ve gotten to.”

Arthur gives him an incredibly sour look, but what exactly is he going to do? He’s just sent Lance and Montague so many miles to retrieve Gwaine, and – whatever the real reason for it might have been, because Gwaine still doesn’t buy Lance’s bullshit about Arthur wanting all his knights back for his wedding – Arthur isn’t just going to throw him out again immediately. For a few days, Gwaine is an exception to the rules, at least to a certain extent, and if he doesn’t want to stand around listening to Arthur yell at him for nothing, he doesn’t have to.

He sees no one as he walks with Montague – who stuck around through Arthur’s bitching, waiting for him, and for a one-night-stand that turned out to be one of the biggest mistakes Gwaine has ever made, he’s not all that bad – through the castle to the knight’s quarters to meet his brother. Walks silently, too, which is nice, even if it means the voice in his head telling him to leave Gareth to his own devices and go find Merlin is without competition from any other source of noise. He isn’t going to obey it, though, because Gareth is almost alone in a new city, the furthest from home he’s ever been, and Merlin knows he’s back, anyway, so if he wants to see Gwaine he’ll come looking for him.

“This one’s mine,” Montague murmurs, after a very long silence, stopping outside a door a few down from Gwaine’s room. “Look,” he adds, eyes fixed intently on Gwaine. “You should really tell King Arthur and the rest of the knights that Gareth’s your brother. It’s fine that you don’t want people to know about your background, particularly seeing as family is kind of a sore spot around here, but tell them, otherwise everyone will assume the same thing as the king is.”

“I don’t really care what Arthur thinks,” Gwaine tells him, and finds it a little worrying that Montague has apparently managed to _work out_ what Arthur thinks; Gwaine was, up until recently, under the impression that that was a skill only Merlin and Gwen possessed most of the time (Leon can manage it on occasion, but he’s had decades of experience so it’s not that much of a surprise). “People can assume what they want. If it upsets Gareth, I’ll tell them.”

“It’s not Gareth’s opinion I’m worried about,” Montague says, frowning at him. There’s something of a question to it, but seeing as Gwaine isn’t sure what it is he can’t exactly answer it. Montague rolls his eyes. “If you’re sure,” he says, then smiles. “It’s none of my business, anyway, is it?”

“Not hugely, no,” Gwaine answers, but finds he doesn’t really care too much. He’s here, safe, and as long as he isn’t thinking of Merlin he can pretty much pretend the last few months haven’t happened. “I’ll see you later,” he says, shrugging, and heads to his own room.

Gareth is there, of course, sitting in one of his chairs and scuffing his sock-clad feet across the floor as Lance paces almost silently. Both of them start when he enters the room, pausing momentarily, then carry on.

“What’s going on?” Gwaine asks, glancing from one to the other; Gareth smiles timidly at him, while Lance looks disapproving (well, Gwaine managed almost a week before getting that look from him, which has to be a record of some sort).

“Merlin was here when Gareth arrived,” Lance says. He stops pacing and slumps down in Gwaine’s other chair. “He decided to follow your excellent example and not tell anyone he’s your brother.”

Ah, so that’s why Lance isn’t happy with him, and he so doesn’t need a second person telling him to tell the truth. “Merlin’s smart. He’ll work it out.” Merlin has more to work on than anyone else, after all, even if he doesn’t actually know Gwaine has siblings. And it wasn’t that Gwaine was keeping it from him, just that it never really came up in conversation. “And anyway,” Gwaine adds, “if you’re that bothered, why didn’t you tell Merlin yourself?”

“I was not here,” Lance confesses. “I gave Gareth directions, then stopped in my room to leave my bag and wash quickly. I did not expect Merlin to be here, either. I suppose he knows you are back?”

Gwaine sits on the end of his bed, resting his hands on his legs. He can’t deal with this – worrying about what Merlin wants and thinks and is doing – now, not when he’s just got back, not when he hasn’t even _seen_ Merlin yet. “Yeah,” he says, looking back up again, because the choice of not dealing with it isn’t really a choice at all when Lance is asking him questions. “He was watching us in the courtyard.”

“I did not see him,” Lance says, while Gareth looks between them, confused.

Gwaine ignores it, because he isn’t ready to tell his brother why they’re talking so intently about Merlin. “I didn’t either,” he tells Lance. “Montague did, though. He disappeared before I could work out where he was, but I’m guessing this is where he ended up. Do you know why?” Because that’s really the oddest part of it, that Merlin came here after hiding. If he had wanted to talk to Gwaine, he would have waited here until Gwaine got back or, for that matter, come downstairs to see him when he first arrived.

Lance shakes his head, lips pursed, and Gwaine thinks it’s probably an _I’m not going to tell you_ rather than an _I don’t know_. Apparently, ‘Reth isn’t quite so aware of such things, because he answers Gwaine’s question. “He took a basket of laundry with him when he went,” he says. “Said he was tidying up.”

Gwaine glances at him, then back at Lance, raising an eyebrow, because he knows damn well that he left the room mostly tidy. Sure, things hadn’t been folded and put away neatly, but they’d been bundled into his cupboard rather than left on the floor, and in general it had been clean. There was no need for Merlin to come to his room and tidy up on realising that Gwaine was back, unless...it wasn’t Gwaine’s mess he’d been tidying up.

“And I suppose you know nothing of this, right, Lance?” he asks, standing and – just on a hunch – rummaging in the drawers at Merlin’s side of the bed (what was Merlin’s side of the bed, anyway). He presses the knot that releases the secret base and yeah, Merlin has left his book behind.

Gwaine rolls his eyes, his back to the others as he empties the contents of his bag onto his bed and puts Merlin’s book in it instead. “Right,” he says, shouldering the bag. “Lunch, I reckon, and then I’ll show you around the city, ‘Reth.” And if Gaius’ rooms happen to be the first stop, well, Gareth needs to know where the physician’s quarters are, and Gwaine doesn’t really want to wander around the castle with a book of magic in his bag. Seeing Merlin doesn’t figure in his decision at all. Or not much, anyway. Certainly not a lot, certainly not more than anything else.

X

Merlin needs, so very desperately, someone to talk to.

Gaius is great for magic-related things, the first person he’d go to, and then Kilgarrah on the occasions when Gaius is flummoxed. Arthur sucks at all things emotional, but if Merlin needs someone to laugh with or at he’s who he would pick. Lance, in contrast, does do feelings, but he has to have had enough of Merlin’s pathetic whining about Gwaine, so much so that Merlin wouldn’t ask him even if he hadn’t just got back from a long journey. Gwaine himself – also a surprisingly good listener, but then maybe Merlin had just been special – is obviously out.

No, what Merlin needs is a girl to talk to.

It’s only when he’s standing on Gwen’s doorstep that he remembers that she isn’t speaking to him (and, for that matter, that he’s carrying a fairly full basket of laundry, and that he’s left Arthur’s lunch plate lying on the floor in the middle of the castle). It’s also far too late for him to do anything about these facts, because Elyan opens the door to Gwen’s just as Merlin is about to turn and run.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, frowning as he takes in what Merlin imagines is a fairly flustered appearance.

“No,” Merlin answers instinctively. “Yes. Maybe. Is Gwen here?”

The frown deepens, and Merlin fully expects to be asked why he’s there looking for Gwen (Elyan knows full well she’s still avoiding him, after all), but all Elyan does is nod. “Go on in,” he says with a shrug, then walks away.

Merlin enters Gwen’s house warily, half-sure that she’ll throw him out as soon as she realises he’s there, because they both said some fairly unpleasant things to each other the last time they spoke, and Merlin’s parting remark had probably sounded a whole lot more like a threat than he’d meant it to.

“Did you forget something?” Gwen asks, her back to Merlin as she hangs a kettle of water on a hook over the fire, apparently assuming that he is Elyan. Merlin doesn’t say anything, and she turns. “Oh,” she says, less than friendly. “Merlin. What do you- are you okay, Merlin?” Her face softens, unhappy lines fading into concern as she comes over to him and takes the basket from his hands. She places it on the floor, then leads him over to a chair.

_I’m sorry_ , Merlin wants to say. _I’m sorry for arguing with you and for not trying to make amends and for coming here to burden you with my problems_. He opens his mouth, thinking these are going to be the words that come out.

“Montague slept with Gwaine,” he says instead.

“What?” Gwen asks, still standing in front of him, now looking even more worried.

Merlin wonders how his nice, uncomplicated apology became a confession, and why said confession began somewhere in the middle rather than in the most sensible place. “That’s why I – my magic, I mean – threw a knife at him. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even have my magic, so I didn’t even know I could, but I was just so jealous and...”

“What?” Gwen repeats, eyes wide. “You were jealous of...?”

“Of Montague,” Merlin tells her, although he thinks that should have been pretty obvious from his words.

“You were jealous of Montague.” Gwen sits, staring at Merlin, and her expression of concern is rapidly becoming something along the lines of _Merlin, have you gone completely mad?_ “You were jealous of Montague because he slept with Gwaine?” Merlin nods, and finds that his stream of words has apparently dried up because that’s all he does. “You like Gwaine? Really? I mean, he’s nice, but...Gwaine? I thought you...Arthur.”

“Yeah, so did I,” Merlin answers, sighing, then blinks. “Hang on, you knew about that?” It’s Gwen’s turn to nod silently, expression a little guilty, and Merlin feels oddly betrayed, although it’s in a much smaller way to that he felt earlier. “You never said!”

He feels bad for that sentence almost immediately, given that he’s hidden a whole hell of a lot from Gwen, and sort of wants to kick himself when she looks even more guilty. “What was I supposed to say, Merlin?” she asks, shaking her head. “I’m marrying the man you’re in love with. You’re my best friend, but even so, there are some things I can’t talk to you about.”

“ _Was_ in love with,” Merlin corrects, because it seems so very important to make sure that that’s clear.

“Gwaine?” she asks again, although Merlin interprets this as a _do you love him?_ rather than a _Gwaine? Seriously?_ and isn’t quite so offended this time.

Merlin nods, smiles tentatively, and answers, “Yeah, kind of. Well, not kind of. Completely. More than anyone or anything. Ever. I love him. I’m _in_ love with him.” He stops, because he’s gushing and it’s a little scary. “And he’s back. Arthur sent Montague and Lance to get him back from his home because I was unhappy with him gone, and now they’re here again.” He halts a second time, but only for a moment because he knows Gwen is going to ask why he’s sitting in her home looking kind of upset rather than elsewhere and over the moon and he might as well save her the effort.

“There’s someone with him,” he tells her, planning to leave it at that. Once again, though, his mouth seems to be acting independently of his will, and even to his own ears he sounds pitiful as he says, “I don’t know if he still loves me.”

“Still?” Gwen mouths, then pulls him into a hug. He feels like a child as she strokes a hand through his hair and gently pats his back, at once deeply disconcerted and oddly comforted. “Oh, Merlin,” she murmurs, and Merlin adds another person to the list of those who can make his name sound like a very affectionate way of saying _you fool_.

The whistle of the kettle makes her pull back and she stands, adding a second cup to the one already on the sideboard. “Right,” she says, pouring them both tea and pressing his cup into his hands as she retakes her seat. “Start from the beginning, please, and then I might actually be able to say something useful.”

X

Gwaine rushes through his lunch, grateful that they’re late enough that the other knights have left, because introductions will take an age and he wants to get on with Gareth’s tour already.

Unfortunately, Gareth doesn’t seem to be aware of this plan, seeing as he eats stupidly slowly (or at a normal pace, more likely, but it feels slow to Gwaine), staring at Gwaine throughout. He clearly has no idea why Gwaine wants to be moving already, but then why would he? Gareth isn’t necessarily the smartest guy around, and Gwaine suspects he was probably too wrapped up in the hurt of hearing all Gwaine’s secrets come out to pick up on the really important parts, like the fact that not only _was_ Gwaine so in love that things ending broke him in some way but he still _is_. At the very least, ‘Reth has yet to ask him who he was with, and Gwaine is undeniably pleased about that.

Eventually, they’re all done – Lance sticks with them, and Gwaine is too jittery to ask why – and Gwaine leads them to the courtyard, having decided that’s the easiest place for Gareth to get his bearings from, given how large it is and how many windows look out on to it. From there, it’s just a matter of walking down a small flight of stairs, along a corridor, then up another flight, and they’re at Gaius’.

Gaius greets Lance like a son, asking him about his journey and his health, then smiles at Gwaine with considerably less fondness. Gwaine tries not to take it to heart, and seeing as the last real conversation he had with Gaius involved Gaius telling him that he knew about Gwaine’s feelings for Merlin only for Gwaine to leave mere days later, Gwaine figures he deserves it.

“This is Gareth,” he says. “He wants to be a knight. Gareth, this is Gaius, the court physician. Is Merlin about?”

“I’ve not seen him since breakfast,” Gaius answers, peering intently at Gareth. “He’s been training with Elyan in the morning, then goes straight to see Arthur.”

Gwaine nods, wondering why Merlin is still training with the knights; Lance told him that he demanded Merlin be allowed his magic back in exchange for coming to fetch Gwaine. “Okay,” he murmurs, thinking. He can’t just carry Merlin’s magic book around with him until he finds Merlin, but he doesn’t just want to leave it behind without saying anything, and he doesn’t know how much Gaius knows. “Can I steal some paper and something to write with, please?” he asks, then takes the page and ink Gaius hands him up to Merlin’s room, perching on the foot of Merlin’s deeply uncomfortable bed.

_Merlin_ , he writes.

_Sorry I missed you. You left something important behind in a drawer when you packed up today, thought you might like it. It’s back where it used to live. Really am glad you stayed somewhere a bit more comfortable while I’ve been gone._

He stops, dripping ink on the paper as he deliberates how to sign off, then scrawls, _Yours, Gwaine_ , because whatever else may have changed, that hasn’t.

As a note, it says almost nothing, but then he’ll see Merlin in person soon enough. The real words can wait until then, assuming he’s managed to work out what they are.

“Right,” he says, walking back down the stairs to Gaius’ work room, feeling kind of stupid carrying an empty bag around with him. “Next stop, guys. Good to see you, Gaius.”

X

Merlin tells Gwen absolutely everything, from beginning to end, including all the details he was too ashamed to share with Lance, too embarrassed to share with Arthur, and too uncomfortable to share with Gaius.

Gwen stares at him throughout, nodding when Merlin beseeches her not to say anything about it being Gwaine who manipulated Lancelot into kissing her, smiling when she hears of Gwaine’s promise – _I can make you forget about him_ – and Merlin’s answer, looking appalled at his disappearance afterwards. She rolls her eyes at Merlin’s account of his attempts to get Gwaine to sleep with him again, then gets colder, more judgemental, when she hears about Merlin’s behaviour once he was with Gwaine.

_Oh, Merlin_ is a recurring theme in her small number of comments, conveying everything from a disapproving, “Oh, Merlin, how could you do that?” to a kind, compassionate, “Oh, Merlin, _why_ would you do that?”

He hesitates only once, when he reaches Lance telling him of Gwaine’s feelings for him, partly because he still loathes himself for what he did, partly because he thinks this is when Gwen will remember that she loathes him for it as well. All he does is take a single, deep breath before making himself continue, and the only reaction she gives is a tightening of the tiny lines around her mouth as she presses her lips together. She doesn’t let go his hand, not even then, and Merlin loves her for it.

He doesn’t know what he expects her reaction to be when he reaches the end of his explanation, but, if he’s completely honest with himself, he’s hoping for something like when he’d go to Gwaine with a problem, minus the kissing (once was more than enough, and he’s so, so glad Gwen managed to get over her crush on him years ago).

Instead, Gwen only nods, and lets his hand go. “You need to get Arthur something to eat,” she says softly. “If he asks why you didn’t get him lunch, tell him you were with me; he won’t mind so much that way. Then come back with your dinner, and we’ll see if we can think of something.”

X

They don’t find Merlin.

Gwaine isn’t sure quite when his tour turned into a search for his best-friend-slash-ex-lover. It didn’t start out that way, even if their first stopping point was Gaius’ rooms, but at some point between visiting the armoury and knocking on Arthur’s door, Gwaine loses all ability to deny that that’s what he’s doing.

Arthur himself opens the door, leaning against the jamb while holding it open slightly. “Sir Gwaine,” he mutters, frowning, and Gwaine realises that his attempts to look under Arthur’s arm – because he knows a little more about where his limits lie, after his months away, and he accepts that he’s just not tall enough to look over his shoulder – to see if Merlin is in there probably look pretty odd. “What _are_ you doing?”

“Just showing Gareth around,” Gwaine answers defiantly, despite the fact that his brother, his king and Lancelot are all looking at him like he’s mental. “As you can see, these are the king’s chambers. We’re probably not welcome here, as it happens. Don’t suppose Merlin’s lurking back there, is he, sire?”

“No,” Arthur replies coldly, and again Gwaine finds himself stepping between Arthur’s glare and Gareth. “I haven’t seen him since training this morning, not since your return caused him to run away with my lunch.”

Gwaine rolls his eyes and refuses to apologise, because even if Arthur has forgotten about summoning him here Gwaine hasn’t. “Do you know where he is now, sire?”

“Try the dinner hall,” Arthur answers, apparently accepting that Gwaine’s attempt to locate Merlin is serious. “He should show up there eventually.”

“Thanks, Arthur,” Gwaine says, nodding, and then moves on, Gareth and Lance following.

X

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs softly when Merlin, obeying Gwen’s instructions, presents him with his dinner. He stares intently at his plate for quite a long time, and Merlin stands watching him, if only because attempting to decipher the warring emotions on his face is fairly diverting (and, quite frankly, the more time Gwen has to think up a solution, the better). Something along the lines of resignation seems to win out the battle, and Arthur looks up again. “Gwaine was here looking for you,” he announces.

Merlin wonders what Arthur expects his reaction to be. He thinks about asking why, asking who Gareth is, asking what Arthur said in response to Gwaine’s search, asking whether Gwaine said where he was going.

“Oh,” he answers. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Arthur.”

X

Merlin is not in the mess hall when they get there. He doesn’t show up during the half hour it takes for all the knights to assemble, or the half hour it takes Leon – the last of them to arrive – to finish his meal.

“We’re heading off now,” Elyan says, ten minutes later (still no Merlin), at which point Gwaine realises that he has left it to Lance to introduce his brother to their friends and that yes, sitting with his back to the door was a mistake because he’s been twisting to look behind him for more than an hour and his neck hurts. “You coming, Gwaine?”

“You didn’t show me where the tavern is,” Gareth mutters, frowning at him. “They’ve offered to rectify that mistake.”

Gwaine grimaces, wondering how he’s managed to miss off the place that was largely his home for his first month or two in the city. Then he realises that he’s dismissed it as a place to go because Merlin wasn’t going to be there, and decides that enough is enough.

When Merlin wants to see him he’ll come looking, and Gwaine is supposed to be being over him, anyway. “Sorry, ‘Reth. Let’s go.”

X

“We’re going to the tavern,” Gwen says when Merlin returns to her house, smiling brightly. “Eat up.”

“Um, what?” Merlin answers with – he feels – admirable coherency, given what she’s just said. “Why is it that the only solutions people can give to dilemmas relating to my love life involve alcohol?”

Gwen laughs, repeating her instruction for him to eat, and joins him at the table, this time opposite rather than next to him. “You know the knights are there almost every evening,” she explains. “And if Gwaine sobered up a bit when he was with you, how do you suppose he reacted to you leaving him? He’ll go with them, and we can see him there and judge how he acts around this boy, and I can let you know how he looks at you when you’re not looking.”

“I don’t know,” Merlin replies doubtfully. “It’s not like you noticed how he looked at me before, and you don’t exactly go to the tavern often.”

Gwen waves these objections away like they’re nothing. “Pssht,” she actually says, and Merlin chokes on a piece of potato. “I wasn’t looking before, but I will be now. Have a drink.”

Merlin’s coughing subsides, no thanks to her, and he wipes his watery eyes before surveying her carefully to see if it’s safe to take another mouthful. It is, he decides, and mulls over her suggestion as he finishes eating. “Well,” he concedes, “it’s not like I have a better idea. I need to warn Gaius that I’ll be back late, if you’d care to accompany him.”

She smiles and stands, holding out her arm for him to take.

X

“Try not to be too noisy,” Gaius tells Merlin, squinting between him and Gwen like he expects one or the other of them to crack and explain why they’re actually going to the tavern (Merlin told Gwen her breezy, “Oh, I just fancied a drink,” wouldn’t pass muster, but she was determined it would and there was little point in arguing). Not even Gaius’ most raised of raised eyebrows, the one that overflows with parental disapproval, manages to crack them, and Gaius lets it go, having known Merlin long enough to recognise a lost cause when it’s staring him down across a table covered in malodorous herbs.

He nods, sighing a little, and Merlin turns to leave. “If you’re looking for Gwaine,” Gaius tells his back, “He came here first, hours ago. He left a note for you in your room, and his bag was a whole lot lighter when he came back down than when he went up.”

Merlin looks down at Gwen, her arm still linked in his, and she rolls her eyes at him. “Go read it, then. I’ll wait here with Gaius.”

Merlin doesn’t need telling twice; he disentangles their arms immediately and clatters up the stairs, picking up the sheet of folded paper on his pillow.

It is brief, and without any sort of facial expression or tone of voice to accompany the words Merlin has no means of telling how sincere what Gwaine has said is. As a result, the note tells him only three things: first, he has his book of spells back, hidden away safely under his bed; second, Gwaine knows where he’s been staying all the time, and that Merlin tried to rush to clear his belongings out of there before he could find out; and third, consciously or otherwise, Gwaine still signs himself away as belonging to Merlin.

For the first time since seeing Gwaine ride into the courtyard, Gareth beside him, Merlin feels a little less concerned.

X

Gwaine’s heart isn’t in it, and he’s pretty sure people can tell. Lancelot keeps patting his shoulder kindly, and Montague steers another drink towards him each time his own is empty. The others seem to be enjoying asking Gareth a long series of question too much to notice Gwaine’s melancholia, but Gareth’s answers are interspersed with concerned and confused glances at Gwaine.

He makes it through half an hour, before the effort becomes too much. He’s tired, he’s spent the entire afternoon hunting for Merlin who – it seems – doesn’t want to be found, and even if he’d found Merlin he’s not sure what he would have done about it anyway.

“I’m going to g-” Gwaine says, cutting himself off as his eyes focus on the door just beyond Lance’s shoulder. Or, rather, his eyes focus on Merlin, walking into the tavern, and Gwaine feels an awful lot like he’s just lost the longest game of hide-and-seek ever, when all he had to do to win was give up searching.

Their gazes lock, and Gwaine finds himself without the ability to blink, move his head, speak, and, for that matter, think. Merlin, fortunately, seems to be just as brainless (Gwaine really hopes it’s temporary, otherwise the city is pretty much screwed); he freezes, midway through the door, and Gwaine – brain spinning very slowly back into action – thinks that shock at the sight of him is something Merlin should have moved past already, given that he’d been staring for who knew how long when Gwaine first got back before Montague drew their attention to him.

“Gwen?” Elyan calls, loudly enough to bring something other than Merlin and the rush of blood pumping in his ears to Gwaine’s attention. His eyes snap away from Merlin’s, and register the presence of their queen-to-be standing just behind Merlin. “What are you doing here?”

Gwen makes her way over to them, towing Merlin along with her. “I heard our wayward travellers were back,” she says, staring at her brother until he offers her his seat and goes to locate another two with a sigh. “And who is this?” she asks, smiling brightly at Gareth.

“Gareth,” Gwaine says. “Gareth, this is Guinevere, Elyan’s sister and our future queen. And you’ve met Merlin already, of course.” He tries very hard to think of something else to say, but fails, and resorts to just staring again.

Merlin’s cheeks pinken slightly under his scrutiny, but he still sits next to Gwen in one of the chairs Elyan has retrieved, leaving Elyan to squish himself in between Percival and Gwen’s other side. Merlin doesn’t look away from him, either, not even when Gwen joins in the intense interrogation of Gareth.

Merlin doesn’t look away, and Gwaine isn’t quite sure he knows how.

The best he can do, he realises, is to look at something other than his eyes (blue, so blue, intent and full of things Gwaine can’t decipher, doesn’t know if he _wants_ to decipher, isn’t even sure he has the right to try any longer). His hair, spiked up at the front like he’s been running a hand through it for most of the afternoon. His cheekbones, always so prominent, now uncomfortably so. His neck, hidden under a fraying scarf, and his shoulders, wrapped in a jacket thicker than that Gwaine is used to seeing him in (helping him out of) but the same dull shade of brown. His hands, hands that Gwaine has held in his own, hands that have mapped every inch of Gwaine’s skin, hands that bring to mind memories that make Gwaine suppress a shudder (very definitely a good one, no question about that).

It is the bones of Merlin’s wrists that hold Gwaine’s attention, though. He has always thought there was something elegant about them, slender but not spindly, strong for all that they don’t look like they should be. Today, there isn’t. Merlin’s wrists are thin, poking out the end of his sleeves, looking like little more than skin stretched over bone. Gwaine wonders how much weight Merlin has lost, what the rest of him looks like under his clothing; how much do his hipbones jut out, how stark are his ribs, how pronounced are the ridges of his spine?

He believed he was doing the right thing in telling Arthur about the food shortage, knows that he was, because letting the people starve while the nobles feasted was cruel and unkingly. Arthur needed to know, to save his citizens’ lives this winter and to cement their love and loyalty forever. Looking at Merlin now, he feels not pride over his actions but only indescribable guilty for them.

“Merlin,” he says, startling himself as he interrupts the conversation going on around him. “Merlin, have you eaten at all while I’ve been gone?”

As the first words he’s actually said to Merlin since returning, Gwaine thinks he could probably have done a whole lot better.

X

Merlin is rescued from having to respond to Gwaine’s question – remark, really, since he isn’t entirely sure that Gwaine wants an answer to it – by Lancelot, who stands and instructs Gwaine to help him bring in another round of drinks. Gwaine obeys, and Merlin relaxes slightly as the others laugh uneasily and Leon begins an explanation of the food situation and Gwaine’s part in it for Gareth.

Gwen slips her hand into Merlin’s under the table, squeezing gently. “He didn’t mean anything, I don’t think,” she whispers softly, sitting up as straight as she can in order to reach his ear.

“I know,” Merlin answers, slumping in his seat and trying to move his lips as little as he can. “I was just hoping our first conversation might actually pass for conversation, you know.”

She squeezes his hand again, then says, “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you yet. Not that you’re doing a whole lot better. If you want to know how he looks at you when you’re not looking, you’re going to have to actually stop looking at some point.”

Merlin winces a little, because he knows full well that for all Gwaine is staring at him, he’s staring back just as hard. But staring doesn’t mean anything, not really, not when Gwaine’s seat is between Lance’s empty one and Gareth and it isn’t going to be Merlin sleeping in his bedroom tonight. “What about Gareth?” he asks. “What is he to him?”

“You could just try asking him, you know,” she suggests, quite clearly trying not to smile.

“And say what?” he challenges, because it’s an option that’s already crossed his mind. “ _Hey, Gwaine, long time no see. Are you shagging the boy you brought back here with you, or am I still in with a chance?_ ” Merlin realises how much attention their whispered conversation is getting, although he’s sure they’re being quiet enough that even Elyan on Gwen’s right and Leon on his left can’t hear. And even if they aren’t, it’s not like either of them has said anything that isn’t pretty much public knowledge by this point.

Gwen glances around the group, gaze hovering on Gareth, then moving to Gwaine and Lancelot at the bar, and finally fixing on Montague. She smiles, and there’s something a little disconcerting to it, like she has a plan that Merlin won’t like. “Flirt with Montague,” she instructs.

“What?” Merlin squeaks, much too loudly, because as far as plans go that beats an awful lot of Arthur’s in the running for the prize of Thing Merlin Least Wants To Do.

“Not seriously,” she amends, even softer than before, as if to remind Merlin that they don’t want to be overheard. “Just enough that Gwaine notices. If doesn’t still want you, he won’t react.”

Merlin thinks that this is a very bad idea, not least because it’s completely unfair to Montague. Gwen looks so very determined, though, and she is in a strong, committed relationship with Arthur, so Merlin figures she probably knows a bit more than he does. After all, the heart of the King of Camelot is no small prize, and certainly a lot harder to come by (without magical assistance) than a place in the bed of Camelot’s most incorrigible knight.

Gwen gives him an encouraging smile, a quick pat on the hand, and then lets him go. He stands and makes his way around the table, stealing Lance’s seat and steeling himself to do this.

X

“That was tactless,” Lance says, as soon as they’re out of hearing range of the others.

“I know,” Gwaine answers, glancing back at the table. Merlin and Gwen are sharing a very intense conversation and that’s weird, isn’t it? He’s sure it’s odd (Gwen just being here is pretty odd, but the fervour with which she and Merlin seem to be speaking is even more suspect), but he can’t exactly ask Lance because Gwen is kind of a non-topic with him. “I didn’t mean to say it. Just sort of came out. You didn’t tell me how thin he’d got.”

Lance bumps his arm, then – in a display of his impressively powerful empathic powers – says, “You did the right thing, Gwaine. Arthur needed to know.”

“I know,” Gwaine repeats. “Doesn’t mean I feel good about it.” He leans his back against the bar, ducking his head slightly when Bonnie glances in their direction – he vaguely recalls her slapping him the last time he was in here – and watching avidly as Merlin moves from his whispering with Gwen to an equally intense conversation with Montague.

X

Merlin puts his hand on Montague’s arm and leans in to him, smiling. Quietly, he tells Montague that the first evening he knew him, he thought his hair looked like the sunset. As lines go, it’s not a great one, but then this is hardly Merlin’s forte.

Montague looks back at him, leans in just as much, and says, very softly, “I know what you’re doing, Merlin. Stop it.” Merlin considers, just for a second, pretending not to know what he’s talking about, pretending to be serious long enough for Gwaine to work out what he’s doing, and Montague bobs his head once, slowly. “Right. I figured this was how it was going to be when he got back. I don’t expect you to associate with me if you don’t want to, but don’t make me some piece in your games, Merlin.”

He holds Merlin’s gaze until he flinches and has to look away. It stings, not just Montague’s assumption that Merlin would only want to be friends with him in Gwaine’s absence, but the accusation, entirely merited, that Merlin is playing with him for his own selfish reasons. “I’m sorry,” he says under the rumbles of the others’ conversation, taking his hand from Montague’s arm. “I _am_ your friend,” he promises. “I shouldn’t be...I just thought...”

“I know,” Montague murmurs, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “But trust me, please. This isn’t something you want to do. Now go back to your seat before they return to the table, and I would strongly suggest you talk to him before you end up doing something you’ll both regret.”

“Thank you,” Merlin tells him, then stands and returns to his place next to Gwen. “I can’t,” he whispers to her, and then, maybe because it’s more honest and he’s lied to her enough, “I don’t want to.”

She looks back at him, mildly bewildered, and Merlin realises that in telling her absolutely everything, he now has another person wondering why he befriended Montague. He could explain – at least to a certain extent, because even to himself his explanation sounds weak – that for all he accepted that it wasn’t Montague’s fault, he still couldn’t stand to be near him, not really. Ultimately, he could tell her, it was the fact that Arthur and Lancelot were so unapologetically unpleasant to Montague because of what happened between he and Gwaine, and that Montague did nothing about it, barely even reacted, that made Merlin be his friend. He could, quietly and easily, but he won’t, because while he could get away with criticising either Arthur or Lance to her for defending him, both would probably be going too far.

“Okay,” Gwen agrees, accepting his decision to leave unanswered her unasked question. “There’s other options, I just thought he’d be the easiest.”

Merlin wonders why she thought that the easiest plan involved him attempting to flirt, and just how bad her other plans are. Except she didn’t say _it’d be the easiest_ , she said _he’d_ , and this whole thing is just going from bad to worse. Gwen doesn’t have a different idea in mind, just a different person for him to make a fool of himself with, and Merlin doesn’t even want to know who. He wants to go home, now, and he’ll find some opportunity to actually speak to Gwaine tomorrow, when they aren’t surrounded by their friends. “No,” he says. “No, Gwen.”

X

Merlin is weak-willed. He would never have thought it in the past – he stays in a city where his very existence is against the law in order to keep Arthur alive, which pretty much defines determination in his eyes – but it’s really the only explanation for this. He has somehow gone from telling Gwen that there’s no way he’s doing this, at all, ever, to walking through the slightly crowded taverns towards a guy – Roger, Gwen says – about Merlin’s age, one of the pages who runs messages from the council to the various inhabitants of the city, all in the time than it takes Gwaine and Lancelot to return from the bar. Gwen says she’s seen his eyes lingering on Merlin when they’ve both been in attendance at meetings of Arthur’s advisory council. Gwen says he likes Merlin, which will make it easier. Gwen says if Merlin just goes up to him, smiles, offers him a compliment and tries to look like he’s interested in someone other than Gwaine, Roger will do the rest. Gwen says, Gwen says, Gwen says.

But, for reasons unknown, Merlin listens.

He walks over to Roger, smiles, and murmurs, “I love your shirt. The colour really brings out your eyes.” Given that it’s a uniform shirt, the compliment far exceeds the one he offered Montague in terms of terribleness, but Roger smiles back and pushes out the chair next to him.

Merlin allows himself a single glance back at the table, in time to see Gwaine slide back into his seat and pass another tankard to Gareth, then sits himself, his face really starting to hurt from all the insincere smiling he’s got going on.

X

Gwaine helps Lance carry the drinks back to the table with heavy feet and an even heavier heart. Merlin’s conversation with Montague turned out to be very brief, followed by another whispering match with Gwen before he stood again. Gwaine wonders if he’s going to leave, wonders if he should go after him and say...something, but no, Merlin isn’t leaving. Merlin is darting carefully through tavern patrons to get to a guy Gwaine doesn’t recognise, brown-haired, dressed as some sort of castle employee. He must have something work-related to talk to him about, Gwaine figures, except Merlin sits down next to him, far closer than is proper.

Gwaine can’t see what Merlin’s face looks like, but he can see him nodding at what the man says, can see the man’s face brighten impossibly much, can see him put a hand on Merlin’s leg, can see Merlin make no effort whatsoever to remove it.

And sure, Merlin can flirt with whoever the hell he wants, can make a spectacle of himself, can go somewhere with that man and let him put his hands all over him, let him undress him, let him discover all the touches that make Merlin moan and whimper and beg, let him pin him to a mattress and fuck him silly. Merlin may well have spent the entire time he was away doing just that, Gwaine tells himself, but he can’t believe it because for one thing it’s Merlin and for another Lance would have told him, _warned_ him, before bringing him back here. But whether he has or not, Gwaine has no right to stop him, particularly seeing as he’s now sitting only one seat away from someone he’s slept with himself.

Gwaine can’t stop him, isn’t going to stop him, but that doesn’t mean he has to sit here and watch.

“Alright,” he says abruptly, standing. “I’m going to head off.”

He feels everyone’s eyes on him almost immediately, which, okay, is fair, because he’s been acting oddly pretty much the entire evening. He contemplates avoiding eye contact and thus the need to explain and endure Lancelot’s look of concern as Merlin finds someone else’s bed to warm (without even having said a word to Gwaine yet, either, and that stings almost as much, even if Merlin has no real way of knowing how long and how hard Gwaine has searched for him over the course of the afternoon, even if Gwaine’s only sentence to Merlin was a whole lot less than stellar). That would be even more uncharacteristic, though, and Gwaine can’t tolerate anyone asking him what’s wrong; he stares down Leon, Elyan and Percival’s looks of surprise, Lancelot’s sympathy, Gwen’s triumph (what the fuck is that about, and has the whole place gone mad since he left?) and Montague’s exasperation (and he echoes his thought of madness when Montague stands without warning and leaves them all without a word). “You can find your own way back, can’t you, ‘Reth?” he adds, because Gareth’s expression is a perfect picture of _do we have to go already?_

The surprised looks become quite a lot more frowny with that sentence, and Gwen’s delight lessens slightly as Gareth nods. “Yeah, I’m sure I can manage. See you later.”

Gwaine stays just long enough for the others to also say goodnight, and to wave away Lancelot’s offer of an accompaniment back to the castle and then he’s gone, forbidding himself to look back, because he doesn’t need to see.

X

“I have to say, I’m a little surprised you even know who I am,” Roger says, laughing softly.

“Of course I do,” Merlin lies, hating this plan even more now that he’s enacting it than he did when Gwen suggested it. Pretending to put the moves on Montague was cruel, but at least he has no interest in Merlin. This is worse, though, and Merlin can’t even turn to see if it’s having any effect on Gwaine because Gwen told him he couldn’t keep looking back at the knights’ table. It has to look genuine in order to work, she told him, and if Merlin keeps turning to see how Gwaine is reacting it won’t.

Roger’s reply is interrupted by the appearance of two silver coins on the table, and Montague leans in over Merlin’s shoulder. “Right,” he says, and Merlin doesn’t think he’s ever actually heard him sound angry before today. “You, go get another drink. _Now_.” He nods at Roger, fixing him with a look that somehow forces obedience, and Roger takes the coins and goes, quickly.

Montague takes his vacated seat, and Merlin flinches when the look is turned on him, understanding immediately why Roger obeyed without question. “Whatever you think you’re doing, you can stop it now, Merlin.”

Merlin blinks, so unused to being looked at with genuine anger after months of everyone treating him like glass, and finds himself horrifically, unexpectedly close to tears. “Why, Montague? Why? He told me that he loved me, that he was _mine_ , and then two days later he fucked you. That could have been nothing, because I hurt him and I know it and that-that’s just him, _Gwaine_ , and it’s what he does. But this? He comes back to the city, a place he only came to in the first place because I was here, and he has this-this _boy_ sleeping in his room. Why shouldn’t I do this?” And that is so, so much worse, isn’t it, because Merlin isn’t just flirting with this poor guy to find out what Gwaine thinks of him but because he’s seriously and sincerely hoping to hurt Gwaine with it, just as Gwaine has hurt him, even thought Merlin deserves it and pretty much asked for it.

“Why shouldn’t you do this?” Montague echoes. “How about because _this boy_ of whom you are so jealous is Gwaine’s brother, which you would know if you’d bothered to listen to me when I told you to talk to him? Now, stop being such a bloody fucking child and go the fuck after him.”

Merlin turns back to their table, seeing that the seat between Gareth and Lancelot is empty. He’s succeeded in something, at least, because it’s not just anyone who can make Gwaine run. All for nothing, too, because he’s being a stupid, selfish, scared idiot, hurting the man he loves rather than being brave enough to speak to him. Merlin stares at Montague – wanting confirmation, a promise that yes _, brother_ , and, no, Gwaine isn’t Gareth’s, not like he’s Merlin’s, isn’t anyone’s like he’s Merlin’s – until the other man nods at him, and then he’s up and running, tripping over his own feet in his hurry to leave the tavern.

X

It is in the courtyard when Gwaine hears the echo of running footsteps bouncing off the walls around him, and then his name. He stops instinctively, because even without having heard Merlin’s voice in months, that’s what he does when Merlin calls him.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin gasps, pure and direct, hunched over at the waist as he tries to get his breath back.

Gwaine doesn’t really know what to say, what it is Merlin thinks he ought to apologise for, and so just waits, trying not to think of all the other times he’s seen Merlin breathless, in situations much more pleasant than this.

Merlin straightens after a minute, gazing up at Gwaine standing a few steps higher than him, and repeats it. “I’m sorry. That was...I shouldn’t have done that.”

There is genuine guilt in Merlin’s voice, heavy and thick, and Gwaine thinks that maybe he hates it more than the sight of Merlin trying to romance someone else. “No,” he says. “It’s fine. We’re over. You can do what you want.” And then, because that doesn’t make Merlin look any less remorseful, he forces himself to grin and add, “Heaven knows I have.”

Merlin winces, then smiles shakily; Gwaine wonders if it’s as fake as his own, or if that’s just wishful thinking, and doesn’t it make him feel sick that he’s wishing for Merlin to be unhappy. “Who is he?” he asks, because he deserves whatever Merlin’s reply is going to be.

“No one,” Merlin says, looking down at his feet. “Just some guy. Gwen said he liked me.” Gwaine nods, not sure what that’s supposed to mean, and Merlin continues. “I wasn’t going to do anything,” he tells his toes, and Gwaine frowns. “It wasn’t real.”

“Looked pretty real to me,” Gwaine mutters before he can stop himself, yanking his eyes up and away, staring at the buildings beyond Merlin’s head when Merlin looks at him rather than his boots. Yeah, he’s jealous, and yeah, Merlin is blind if he doesn’t know it, but Gwaine doesn’t care what he thinks about it. Or he doesn’t want to care, anyway, which is almost the same, and not knowing is just so much easier.

“Gwen said it had to,” Merlin says, then shuts up too quickly for it to have been a planned sentence. Gwaine lowers his eyes cautiously, the moonlight highlighting the way Merlin’s lips press tightly together to keep anything else in.

Against his will (and isn’t that how this conversation seem to be going?), Gwaine asks, “And what does Gwen have to do with anything? Are you telling people now?” He hadn’t realised that was something he was bitter about, but his tone kind of suggests it is, hidden in amongst everything else he’s feeling. “What, you needed advice about how to hurt my feelings? Just breaking up with me wasn’t enough for you?”

Merlin blinks rapidly, but Gwaine can tell it isn’t working because his cheeks are glistening wetly. “Don’t,” Gwaine tells him, trying to match the tone he used just moments ago, but he can’t. It’s softer instead, kinder, and he wishes he could have kept up his anger because without it he feels unspeakably awful. “Please don’t, Merlin.”

It is a simple matter to step down, first one step, then a second, and wrap his arms around Merlin, holding him close to his chest, Merlin’s arms trapped between their bodies. It isn’t comfortable, really, but Merlin twists his arms in what little space he has to do so, knotting his hands in the front of Gwaine’s shirt, and just clings. “Don’t cry,” Gwaine murmurs, face pressed against Merlin’s neck, left hand stroking his back, right running gently through his hair, trying not to inhale too much, to breathe in the smell of the tavern – smoke and ale, clinging to everyone that goes there, no matter how long they stay or whether or not they drink – and flowers – Gwen’s perfume, probably – and something that is just Merlin – the air before a thunderstorm, the breeze blowing in across the sea, the first taste of springtime.

He feels Merlin shake, some combination of almost silent sobs and the cold, feels Merlin’s tears land on his shoulder, slowly seeping through the layers of clothing to burn their way under his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin mumbles, and it feels like he’s trying to move even closer to Gwaine, impossibly closer, holding on so very hard. Gwaine lets him, because these tears are his fault, his for shouting, for coming back, for leaving, for loving, for ever being stupid enough to be with Merlin in the first place. “I’m sorry, Gwaine. I’m sorry.”

X

Lancelot flinches when Gwaine stands with enough force to almost knock his chair over, although he has no doubt as to why Gwaine is leaving. Montague, too, but he does so less violently, and Lancelot – unlike Gwaine – notices where he is going and approves unquestioningly. He wonders if he should insist on going with Gwaine, argue him into telling everyone that he and Gareth are siblings, but he leaves – flees, Lancelot thinks, then feels guilty for it, because Gwaine has every right to want to be elsewhere – before he can, leaving Gareth behind, and Lancelot feels a little responsible for him. He also thinks about crossing the room to where Montague is leaning over Merlin’s shoulder, because he has yet to see the other man lose his temper, ever, and he rather thinks Merlin’s behaviour right now merits a little anger, but given how quickly the page departs Lancelot surmises his assistance is unnecessary.

“You’re staying with Gwaine?” Percival asks Gareth, and Lancelot winces at the reminder of yet another problem. He had hoped that that assumption could have been Arthur and Merlin’s alone, at least until Gwaine has the good sense to tell everyone the truth, but the information that Gareth is sleeping in Gwaine’s room is enough to lead everyone else to draw the same incorrect conclusion.

“Yeah,” Gareth answers. “It’s not like I have any place else to stay, at least until I earn my own room here.”

Lancelot genuinely thinks about repeatedly smacking his head on the table in the hope that someone realises the cause of his despair, and tries to work out why the hell he is not enlightening everyone himself in order to save what few vestiges of Gwaine’s reputation are still redeemable. Gwaine would not want him to, he knows, and that is really the only reason he can think of to stay quiet. He tells himself firmly that that is reason enough, after the last time he shared a secret of Gwaine’s that he wanted to stay secret.

He feels more than observes the others’ sharp glances, having decided his attention is better off fixed on Merlin and Montague’s hurried conversation, but he is still listening. “You’re welcome to sleep on any of our floors,” Elyan says, his fervent hope that Gareth accepts practically audible.

“Or,” Leon adds, with equal optimism, “I’m sure Arthur could be persuaded to locate a room for you temporarily, given who your parents are.”

Gwen (he has tried not to notice her, to ignore the fluttery thing that takes up residence in his chest whenever she is close, to focus on Gwaine and Merlin’s problems, but she is right there, almost directly across from him, stubbornly in his line of sight) is half-turned in her seat in order to observe what Lancelot hopes is Montague’s severe dressing down of Merlin, but glances back to see what Gareth’s response to this is.

“I’m not sure what my parents have to do with anything,” Gareth tells them, and Lancelot wonders how no one recognises that stubbornness as the same as Gwaine’s own. “Our- _my_ father died before I was born, and my mother has barely stepped foot out of our village since then. Any room I get here should be earned on my own merits, not because of relatives no one knows. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t shared with Gwaine before. Apart from the snoring, it’s not so bad.”

At this point, Lancelot thinks smacking his head on the table is really the only appropriate reaction, particularly when Gwen asks, in a very gentle, very careful voice, “Just how old are you, Gareth?”

“No,” Lancelot says, because enough is enough. It does not matter that Gwaine wants his lineage to remain a secret, not really; Gwaine may be ignorant to everyone’s assumption, or possibly just uncaring, and Gareth quite clearly has no idea what all these massively leading questions are the result of, but Lancelot is not, which rather makes this his responsibility to sort out. “No,” he repeats. “Stop with the questions, now, please, before he works out why you are asking them and tells Gwaine.”

“What?” Gareth interrupts before Lancelot can explain the crucial part. “Why can’t they ask questions, Sir Lancelot? I don’t mind answering them.” He frowns at Lancelot in confusion, then looks back at Gwen. “I’m-”

“Gwaine’s _brother_ ,” Lancelot cuts in, hoping that in averting the mention of an age he has succeeded in averting Gwaine coming into prolonged and particularly painful contact with someone’s sword because he is too stubborn to tell the truth.

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t want people to know that, Sir Lancelot,” Gareth says, frowning harder, even as he sounds a little guilty for implicitly questioning Lancelot’s decision to tell everyone.

“No, I know he did not,” Lancelot agrees, “but _I_ am pretty sure he would prefer for everyone to know that you two are _siblings_ than allow them to continue thinking what they are thinking for as long as it takes him to work it out and correct them.” It is hardly the most coherent of sentences, but it certainly seems to have conveyed the necessary facts to Leon, Elyan, Percival and Gwen, all of whom have expressions of comprehension dawning on their faces. Furthermore, he has, with any luck, succeeded in keeping from Gareth the assumption that Gwaine is sleeping with him, thus, all being well, preventing Gwaine from being severely offended by learning of it.

The comprehension seems to be followed by relief, although Lancelot does not know if it is because they are deeply pleased that Gwaine is not having relations with someone inappropriately young for him, or if it is because they will never have to deal with Gwaine’s reaction to them thinking that. Either way, he now feels safe to turn his full attention to the conversation Montague is...not having with Merlin. Merlin is gone, and Montague is making his way back over to them, smiling like the proverbial cat that got the cream.

He settles back into his seat as the questions resume, this time a whole lot more innocuous, barely glancing at Lancelot. “Told Merlin,” he says quietly, eyes on the table in front of him. “He’s gone after him.”

“I told everyone else,” Lancelot answers with no more volume. “I thought Gwaine would prefer that to being stabbed in his sleep by Gareth’s rescue party.” And then, registering the fact that Montague has managed to push Merlin into running after Gwaine, a feat Lancelot is not entirely sure he would have been able to manage himself, feels compelled to add, “Good job with Merlin.”

“That may well be the nicest thing you’ve said to me, Sir Lancelot,” Montague murmurs, looking up with a soft, startled laugh, then stops, sobers. “Are you going to talk to Guinevere, or shall I?”

X

Merlin shivers a single, massive shiver, definitely distinct from his sobbing, and Gwaine pulls back a little, loosening his arms, resisting when Merlin tries to tug him in again. “Don’t,” Merlin murmurs, and something in Gwaine’s brain muses humourlessly that it is now Merlin’s turn to say that. “Don’t let me go.”

“I’m not,” Gwaine tells him, even though technically he is. He tugs the laces of his cloak free, then shrugs it off, wrapping it around Merlin’s shoulders. “You’re cold,” he says, allowing Merlin to tug him back in, sliding his arms into place around him again. “You shouldn’t be cold.” It sounds ridiculous, and Gwaine couldn’t explain what he means by it if he tried, so he doesn’t try.

But, he thinks, given the way Merlin presses his head back against his shoulder and moves his arms from their hold on the front of Gwaine’s shirt to curl around his back, it maybe isn’t necessary.

X

“What does Gwen have to do with anything?” Lancelot asks, and knows that he sounds a lot more like he is defending her than he should. Montague arches a single, sarcastic eyebrow at him, the words _oh really?_ very visibly on his mind even though he does not say them. “She told him to,” Lancelot realises, less a question than a statement.

“Yeah, I reckon so. I was the first mark, anyway. Really quite glad Gwaine didn’t work out what Merlin was doing with that one.”

“Hmm,” Lancelot says, privately wondering how Gwaine would have reacted to that knowledge. He would not have been happy about it, certainly, but Lancelot is fairly sure that Gwaine’s distaste for hypocrisy is enough that he would not interfere, perhaps even enough that he would not have stalked out as he did. Lancelot imagines Gwaine would probably consider it a suitable punishment, actually, to sit and watch as Merlin flirted with Montague, to pretend it was not crippling him to see it. Then again, perhaps that is just Lancelot projecting his emotions on to others, promises and duty not weighing half as much on the list of considerations that will have him sitting through Arthur and Guinevere’s wedding as the need to punish himself in order to assuage the guilt he feels over almost ruining their happiness with one another, over wishing that, in the time between this day and the wedding day, only weeks away now, she will change her mind. She will not, and Lancelot will not try persuade her to, but just wishing that she will is sin enough.

“I will talk to Gwen,” Lancelot tells Montague, setting his shoulders, and fibs a little about his reasoning. “I have known about them for longest; it is probably my responsibility.”

Montague narrows his eyes a little and Lancelot tries not to cringe, tries not to think back to every conversation he has ever had with him, tries not to think of every single interaction he has had with Gwen that Montague may have witnessed. “Well,” Montague murmurs, seemingly oblivious to Lancelot’s furious wishing that he knows nothing of his feelings for Gwen, or his past transgressions with her. “Good luck, then.”

Lancelot smiles hesitantly at him – it is Montague, after all, and he still has no real desire to be friends with him, even if both Gwaine and Merlin seem okay with it – and begins searching for a suitable opportunity to speak to Guinevere, since leaving with her alone would be deeply inappropriate. Involving any of the others would be foolish, though, and Lancelot would rather not do anything else tonight that Gwaine will be displeased with him for.

It is the better part of half an hour before Gwen begins to show signs of being ready to leave, and Lancelot still has no real reason for running after her. When she tugs her shawl around her shoulders and stands, Lancelot throws caution to the wind and rises as well. “Gareth,” he says, “I believe Gwaine forgot to show you where Elyan’s forge is. Would you care to accompany me in escorting Gwen home, and we can rectify that mistake?”

“Sure,” Gareth answers, standing as well, seemingly oblivious to anything in the way of ulterior motives. “If Lady Guinevere does not object, of course.”

Gwen giggles, and Lancelot feels his heart skitter a little. He does not step forwards, allowing Gareth to walk around to Gwen and offer her his arm rather than doing so himself. Gwen presses a kiss to Elyan’s cheek, then nods her farewell to the others.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Gareth says to the knights, most of whom look rather surprised; Lancelot suspects that by informing them of Gareth’s relation to Gwaine, they no longer expect him to demonstrate any manners.

“You’re welcome, kid,” Montague grins, clearly knowing better as a result of their days travelling with him. “Hurry off, now. You don’t want to be waking Gwaine up too late.” He gives Lancelot a very pointed look, completely unnecessary, because Lancelot had hardly been planning on allowing Gareth to just barge into the room without warning. He suspects there’s something equally pointed about the nod with which Leon responds to his farewell, a careful blend of compassion and warning; the former, Lancelot feels, is undeserved, while the latter is only deeply unwarranted. Lancelot has no desire to repeat his sins, when the guilt from the first time is burden enough.

X

Merlin clings to Gwaine far longer than it takes for his tears to dry up and his apologies to halt, mostly just because he is so very grateful that Gwaine is still willing to let him. Gwaine doesn’t let him go, not beyond the few seconds it takes for him to wrap Merlin in his cloak, and really the only way Merlin can think of to describe the long, long moments he spends with Gwaine’s arms around him is _home_.

It doesn’t matter that it’s cold outside, so cold that if their faces weren’t buried firmly in each other’s necks their breath would be clearly visible. It doesn’t matter that they’re standing where anyone and everyone can see them, visible from half the castle and most people entering or leaving it. It doesn’t matter that they’ve barely spoken, that they still have so very much to say before they can curl up safe and warm and together.

Merlin pulls back, lifting his head from Gwaine’s shoulder, and waits until Gwaine looks at him before rising onto his toes – how peculiar that is, and the way Gwaine leans down a little to meet him, too – and pressing his lips to Gwaine’s. His eyes flutter closed as Gwaine’s hand slips from the back of his head to cradle his jaw so very gently, and Merlin presses closer, tilting his head into Gwaine’s hand and deepening the kiss, feeling Gwaine shudder against him, just a little.

Nothing matters, because Gwaine is back.

X

Lancelot waits until they are a decent way outside of the tavern before stepping up alongside Gwen, standing close enough to speak quietly to her without allowing himself physical contact. “That was an interesting suggestion you made,” he says, half-hoping to hear her deny it, as Gareth babbles about how nice the city seems, and how friendly everyone is.

Gwen glances at him just briefly, then nods in a way that suggests she has just realised that this was Lancelot’s motivation for offering to accompany her home. “Gareth, could you let me talk to Sir Lancelot for a minute, please?” she says, when Gareth pauses for breath.

Gareth nods, unlinks his arm from hers, and drops back a couple of paces, all without question. It really is a little disturbing, Lancelot thinks, and tries not to laugh when Gwen murmurs, “He’s not much like his brother, is he?”

He pushes down his amusement and does his best to smother anything resembling fondness for her (it does not work, but he was not truly expecting it to, having attempted it many a time in the past). “Did you tell Merlin to do that?” he asks, pushing for a frosty tone.

“I’m not sure you’re one to complain about meddling, Lancelot,” Gwen replies, and it saddens him for reasons beyond her words; up until that moment, Lancelot had still had hope that Montague was mistaken. “Merlin told me everything,” she continues, “And it sounds to me like a lot of what’s happened is your fault.”

“I told Merlin that Gwaine loves him,” Lancelot hisses, glancing back over his shoulder at Gareth, ambling along quite happily behind them without any signs that he can overhear their conversation. “You told him to flirt with one of his friends and then with a complete stranger, right under Gwaine’s nose. It is hardly comparable.”

With that sentence, Lancelot discovers proudly that he has finally managed to find a suitable level of anger to colour his tone. It stings him to see how cowed she looks, maybe, but he refuses to show it when she more than deserves it. “What were you thinking, Gwen? Why would you tell Merlin to do something that you had to know would hurt Gwaine?”

“I didn’t make Merlin do anything,” Gwen argues, and Lancelot does not bother to protest it. Merlin does what he wants, always, but he tends to follow advice that is not necessarily wise, just because he trusts the person giving it. “I was trying to help,” she states firmly in response to his silence. “That’s more than you’ve done this evening.”

“Ah, yes,” Lancelot spits, “Because giving Gwaine the impression that the man he is in love with is no longer interested in him is such a helpful thing to do.”

Gwen stops walking in the middle of the street. “I was trying to help,” she repeats with even more determination as Gareth catches up to them, apparently taking their stillness as permission to do so.

“I hope for your sake that Merlin manages to explain that,” Lancelot answers, not breaking eye contact. “Rest assured, I will be pointing Arthur in your direction if this makes Merlin any unhappier than he already is.”

“You’re hardly perfect yourself, Lancelot,” she tells him, before he can turn away in exasperation at her unwillingness to accept his argument.

“No,” he agrees, because this is a fact he understands well, even though almost everyone else he knows denies it. He reaches a hand out to her almost involuntarily, sweeping a curl back from her face then letting the hand linger on her hair, and he leans in closer than he should allow himself to. She does not step back, does not push his hand away, just holds his gaze, and his control shakes a little. He wants to step even closer, crush her body up against his, put his mouth to hers and never, ever let her go, regardless of their audience and location, of her marriage only weeks away and the knowledge that Merlin will destroy them both if he does. He wants to follow her into her house, only yards away from them, take off her clothing and his own and lie with her in her thin, uncomfortable bed. He wants to throw away vows and disregard oaths, put his mouth on each and every inch of her skin, hear her cry his name as he moves within her, wipe away her every memory of Arthur with thoughts of him and him alone. He wants.

“I am far from perfect,” he tells her, noticing vaguely that Gareth has turned his back and the hunch of his shoulders suggests he is only seconds away from putting his fingers in his ears and humming. Lancelot steps away rather than towards her, and is certain, for once, that he would have done so with or without another’s presence. “But you forget, Guinevere. All my sins are yours as well.”

She stares at him still, eyes soft and wide and _something_ , even as he removes his hand from her hair and takes a second step back, and a third, then turns away from her. “Guinevere’s house is that one,” he says to Gareth, pointing. “The smithy is next door to it. I am sure she can make it without us from here.”


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, this fic is still in progress. I'm so very incredibly sorry it's taken me so long, and I hope there's people out there still reading. Love, Peach...

Gwaine, probably due to some combination of surprise and confusion, doesn’t break off the kiss as quickly as he should do. It’s the angle that throws him off, he thinks, because even with their height difference Merlin has to tilt his head up to compensate for the step above him Gwaine is standing. The angle is unfamiliar, when the motion of Merlin’s lips is not, when the way Merlin gasps and opens his mouth a little is exactly how he remembers it. Gwaine isn’t entirely sure when he closes his eyes – before or after Merlin’s hands drift down to his arse, before or after his tongue dips into Merlin’s mouth and the taste of Merlin clouds his mind? – and he knows that he should care more than he does but, gods, has he missed this.

Still, his mind can only remain inactive for so long before spinning back into motion. “Mmphf,” he says, then repeats it after disengaging their mouths. “No.”

Merlin opens his eyes, pupils blown, blinking slowly, and Gwaine struggles to keep his thoughts in order.

“Sorry,” he says, a hand on each of Merlin’s shoulders as he steps backwards and up. Merlin’s hands drop away from him to hang loosely by his sides, and Gwaine thinks his expression of mild bewilderment is more because Gwaine is apologising than because he has stopped kissing him. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No,” Merlin answers, and his blinks become a slightly shaky smile. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry.” His hands lock onto Gwaine’s, startling him a little as he tugs them from his shoulders and holds tightly. There is something a little frantic in his eyes, wild and unexpected, and for a moment Gwaine thinks he sees gold there, wonders how close to the edge his control it. It should scare him, after what happened to Lancelot. It doesn’t. “I am sorry, not just for tonight, in the tavern with that guy and Montague, but for before, too, for everything. I shouldn’t have ended things between us, I should never have let you leave, Gwaine. I-”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Gwaine says, slightly belatedly, but it takes a few seconds for the thought that _oh, that’s what that oddly intense conversation Merlin had with Montague was_ to clarify. “Don’t apologise, Merlin, and don’t second-guess yourself.” He pulls his hands free, a little amazed by how much effort it takes, and climbs up another step, it being the only way to put any distance between them. “You did the only thing you thought you could, so there’s no point in wishing things had gone differently.”

He thinks Merlin is about to protest again – he knows he is, even, because Merlin never wants to leave anyone hurting when he thinks he can do something about it – and doesn’t need to hear it. “I’m sorry I kissed you, Merlin. It won’t happen again.”

Another step up, and he’s now far enough away that he can’t reach out and touch Merlin again, which is good, better, even if it doesn’t feel that way. “Keep the cloak, yeah,” he says, turning and almost running the rest of the way upstairs. He hears Merlin calling after him after a moment, footsteps loud behind him, but it’s a lot easier to pretend he doesn’t.

X

It takes Merlin only a matter of seconds to realise that Gwaine isn’t going to stop to listen to him. Moving from that realisation to stopping following him takes a little longer, but eventually the fact that if he carries on he’ll essentially end up cornering Gwaine in his bedroom sinks in. And he could do it, and in the past he maybe would have, but Gwaine has only just returned, has been drinking (not too much, maybe, not by Gwaine’s standards, but enough that Merlin feels he ought to take it into account), and was obviously upset by Merlin’s actions earlier. Pushing him won’t help anything, and Merlin doesn’t exactly want what is likely to be a pretty long conversation between them to be interrupted by Gareth anyway.

There is always tomorrow, after all, and as many days and weeks and months as it takes for Gwaine to listen when Merlin tells him he loves him.

Halfway between the knights’ corridor and the main entrance to the castle, Merlin stops and turns around, making his way to his own room rather than anyone else’s. Gaius is already asleep when he gets there, for which Merlin is really so very pleased, since explaining his appearance (he knows he must look like he’s been doing exactly what he’s been doing, mouth kiss-reddened and hair the particular kind of disarrayed that Gwaine has always managed to leave it, and then there’s the fact that the cloak he’s wearing is decidedly not his own) is not at all something he wants to do. He shivers himself to sleep surprisingly quickly, wrapped in Gwaine’s cloak (which helps more than he’ll admit, given that Gwaine’s bed-linens stopped smelling like him ages ago) and as many blankets as he’s been able to locate over his winters in Camelot.

X

Lancelot is torn between pretending that the conversation Gareth has just witnessed between he and Gwen was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary and babbling all kinds of desperate attempts at explanations of how it was not what it looked like. He settles for heading towards the castle in silence, and Gareth follows him (although he has little option, really, if he wishes to find his way to Gwaine’s room, given that Gwaine’s attempt to show him around that afternoon had been less a tour and more a trip to all the places Merlin was likely to be).

“Gwaine said Guinevere is marrying King Arthur soon,” Gareth says softly as they make their way through the lower floors of the castle.

Given that he is not sure if Gareth’s statement is an accusation or merely a query, all Lancelot can do is nod and offer nothing further. He has no explanation for his actions, and even if he did he is not sure he would want to give it, not when there are days when it seems like his every thought goes against his loyalty to Arthur.

“Hmm,” Gareth continues, a flight of stairs and two twisting corridors later, voice even more soft. “That kind of sucks.”

Again, Lancelot is lost for a response; the only thing that comes to mind is the truth. “Arthur loves her very much, and she him. They will make each other very happy.”

Gareth pauses walking for long enough that Lancelot has the distinct sensation that his answer is incorrect, without being quite sure how. Gareth shoves against his shoulder gently as he resumes motion, probably an attempt at a _cheer up_ gesture, in much the same way as Arthur offers comfort through casual punches and mild insults. “And who is going to make _you_ happy?” he asks, and that is not at all Arthur-like, given the particular tone it is said in.

“You are disturbingly like your brother,” Lancelot answers, because he quite honestly cannot think of anything else to say, even if he thinks – _hopes_ – Gareth’s inflection was largely accidental.

For the second time in mere seconds, Gareth’s steps falter and Lancelot stops with him, turning to see an expression on his face that is probably the closest thing he has ever seen to pure horror. “Please tell me you didn’t,” he says. “Not with Gwaine. I didn’t think you were that stupid.” He flushes, then rushes to correct himself, looking even more appalled. “Not that I think you’re stupid, Sir Lancelot,” he gushes, and if it were not for the fact that he has just been accused ( _again_ ) of sleeping with Gwaine, Lancelot would find it mildly endearing. “I don’t, I really don’t. It’s just… You’re a lot closer to what I imagined a knight to be than my brother is.”

“Gwaine is a far better man than he likes people to think he is,” Lancelot chides gently. “He may not live up to your image of what a knight ought to be, but he is one of the best men – and most loyal friends – I have known.” It is only as he says it that he realises that it sounds a whole lot closer to _yes_ than it does to _no_ ; clarifying that might be a good idea, he thinks, and tries to work out how many times it is now that either he or Gwaine has had to do so. “That said, however, _no_. I have never had a relationship with Gwaine.”

“I know that much,” Gareth says almost scathingly. “Gwaine doesn’t have relationships.”

It is Lancelot’s turn to hesitate a moment, seeing as he had been sure that part of Gwaine’s reason for sending Lancelot out of the room along with his niece and sister-in-law was so that he could tell his mother and brothers about Merlin, even if Gareth’s lack of reaction to Merlin earlier was enough to suggest that Gwaine had again avoided mention of a name. “Did he not tell you about- about why he left?” he asks carefully, and wonders just how much he ought to explain if Gareth is completely ignorant of the situation, since telling him is neither Lancelot’s responsibility nor his right.

“No, he did,” Gareth says in a tone of not inconsiderable surprise. “I just wasn’t sure how true it was. I mean, I didn’t think he’d lied, maybe, but it’s not like he doesn’t have a history of hiding facts he doesn’t want us to know.”

Lancelot supposes this is not unreasonable, given how shocked he himself was to find out quite how serious Gwaine’s feelings for Merlin are. “In this case, I believe the only thing Gwaine failed to tell you was a name,” he says softly. “And, just to be absolutely clear, it was not me. I have never been with your brother, nor do I have any desire to change that in the future.”

“Oh,” Gareth mutters. “Oh, good.”

Lancelot suppresses a smile, wondering how the boy has managed to form such a high opinion of him in so few days that the fact that he has no interest in his brother comes as a relief to him. His thoughts return to the fact that it is not his right to tell Gareth about Merlin, and it occurs to him that it may not actually be necessary to tell him; Merlin left in pursuit of Gwaine earlier, after all, and since they have not seen either of them on the way here… “It may be best if you sleep on my floor tonight, Gareth,” Lancelot suggests, pausing where the routes to his and Gwaine’s chambers diverge.

“I’m not too bothered about waking him, really,” Gareth replies. “After all the times he’s come stumbling home drunk in the past and woken everyone up, he probably deserves it.” He smiles brightly, cheeks a little pink, then continues with great sincerity. “I can find my way from here, thank you, Sir Lancelot.”

“I was not worried about waking him,” Lancelot begins, cutting himself short when he sees that Gareth is not particularly inclined to stand around talking. He hurries to catch up with him, then steps around him to press his ear to Gwaine’s door, because despite the fact that he has no desire at all to know what Gwaine and Merlin get up to behind closed doors, he thinks the risk to his sanity from hearing them is probably preferable to Gareth walking in there.

Mercifully, all is silent, but Lancelot knocks sharply anyway, waiting for Gwaine to grunt something approximating, “Come in,” before allowing Gareth to open the door. The boy looks at him in a way that suggests he is currently re-evaluating every estimate he has so far made of Lancelot’s intelligence, but Lancelot is more concerned firstly by the fact that Merlin is nowhere in sight and secondly by the look on Gwaine’s face as he sits in a nest of blankets on the floor by the fire.

“Are you-”

“I’m fine, Lance,” Gwaine interrupts, in a tone implying that in reality he is anything but.

“I-”

“ _Goodnight_ , Lance. We’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.”

Registering the futility of arguing further, Lancelot accepts this as the dismissal it is. He spares a moment or two to contemplate going to check up on Merlin as he leaves, but decides against it. He is tired, after all, and there is nothing that can be said or done tonight that will not be considerably simpler in the morning.

X

It takes a great deal of effort to make Gareth get up in the morning but Gwaine perseveres, forcing a smile onto his face as he dresses himself in his armour and drags his still yawning brother down to the mess hall.

They arrive later than the others, although not by too much, meeting Merlin on his way out as they are heading in. Gareth smiles, cheerful despite the fact that he has been grumbling about having to be awake ever since Gwaine stole the blankets from his bed in order to get him to leave it, and Gwaine suspects that his brother is likely to worship Merlin as much as he obviously is Lancelot. Lancelot is an obvious candidate for idealisation, brimming with knightly virtue as he is, but Gwaine figures Merlin getting the same treatment is his fault; if he hadn’t been so caught up in telling stories of Camelot, in conveying his own admiration for Merlin, Gareth wouldn’t even know that Merlin is the only reason Camelot is still here.

“Good morning,” Gareth chirps, then, with alarming naivety, adds, “You left pretty quickly last night.”

Gwaine says nothing as Merlin’s gaze flicks between the two of them, something close to alarm on his face. Merlin offers Gareth a slightly shaky smile. “Yeah,” he says, glancing again at Gwaine. “Yeah, I had somewhere to be. Do you mind going in on your own, Gareth? I need to borrow your brother for a bit.”

Gareth shakes his head and smiles again, seemingly unconcerned about the fact that Merlin knows they are related, even as Gwaine wonders whether Merlin worked it out or if someone told him. If it were anyone else, he’d probably be upset, but it’s not like he was keeping it from Merlin (hell, it’s not like he has anything he keeps from Merlin, and his complete inability to hold anything back from him is at least half of why he’s still hurting now).

“No, it’s fine,” Gareth says. “I’ll sit with Sir Lancelot and everyone, yeah, Gwaine?” Sod that he is, Gareth doesn’t even bother waiting for a reply, just ambles away to join the back of the food queue, leaving Gwaine alone with Merlin, the pair of them almost blocking the doorway.

Merlin begins speaking as soon as he’s gone, the cheer he put on for Gareth’s benefit vastly diminished but a certain air of hope to his face anyway. “Gwaine, I-”

“Who told you?” Gwaine interrupts, unbothered by him knowing but equally unwilling to talk to Merlin about anything real so early in the morning.

“Montague did, just after you left,” Merlin tells him, then seems to feel the need to add, “Don’t be too angry with him, please. You should have told me yourself, anyway, and then I wouldn’t have been quite so worried when Gareth said he knew about… The thing I don’t tell people about. But it’s fine, I mean, he seems nice, and you obviously trust him, which is good enough for me, and.” He stops there, nervous babble halting abruptly, and Gwaine has no idea whether he’s meant to feel like he’s being told off or not. Mostly, he just feels awkward, and far too sober, particularly when Merlin continues. “About yest-”

“Can we talk later, Merlin?” Gwaine interrupts, really not wanting to hear how Merlin was just surprised at seeing him again, taken aback at the fact that Gwaine is still unattached, falling back into old habits, whatever his kind but ultimately hurtful explanation for the kiss is.

“Oh,” Merlin answers, surprised. “Um, I was sort of hoping we could, you know, do it now, actually.”

_I’m sure you were_ , Gwaine thinks uncharitably, figuring that Merlin wants to clarify things as soon as possible so that he doesn’t have to feel guilty for too much longer. “I need breakfast, Merlin, and I want to see how Gareth is getting on with the others.”

Merlin’s hand closes around his forearm before Gwaine can turn his back and walk into the hall. “Gwaine,” he says, staring at him intently, and his voice is so very sincere. “Gwaine, I-”

“I’m not the only one who’ll want to eat. Best be going to find Arthur.” And if there’s something pointed to the way he says Arthur’s name, it really isn’t Gwaine’s fault. He shakes Merlin’s hand off, mutters, “Later,” and joins the back of the breakfast queue just after Gareth leaves the front of it.

X

Merlin grins when Lancelot sits next to him at the breakfast table, looking surprisingly cheerful; Lancelot wonders why, when Gwaine certainly seemed less than happy last night. “Morning,” he says, jostling Lancelot with his elbow, then resumes shovelling food into his mouth.

“Good morning,” Lancelot replies, nodding at the others. He eats at a far more sedate pace, the words _what have you done now, Merlin?_ on his tongue the whole time; he fights them back, not wanting to discuss this with an audience, and really, if Merlin does not seem to be miserable, how bad can things actually be?

Merlin leaves before it can be too much of an issue, his seat vacant for only a few minutes before Gareth settles in it, greeting Lancelot and Montague by name and the others as a group with no less cheerful a countenance than Merlin’s was. He gets smiles in return, although Lancelot is certain he is not the only one surprised that he is alone.

“Where’s Gwaine?” Leon asks, in an appropriately timed confirmation of Lancelot’s thoughts.

“Merlin wanted to talk to him,” Gareth replies, gesturing towards the door; Lancelot is relieved when Montague swivels to look almost as quickly as he does, whilst Leon glances over their heads in a slightly less blatant manner. “Or,” Gareth continues, registering at the same time as the rest of them that Merlin and Gwaine are not there, “he was there a minute ago. He’s in the queue now. Wonder what Merlin wanted.”

No one has time to speculate (not that those who know would have done so, Lancelot thinks), since Gwaine joins them, standing behind his brother until he moves over far enough for Gwaine to sit. There is a distinct absence of conversation for several seconds, until Gwaine looks up from his plate to see everyone staring at him (or more accurately, Lancelot suspects, at he and Gareth).

“What?” he asks. “Is there something on my face?”

Lancelot tries to hide his smile as Elyan, Leon and Percival exchange glances as they try to decide who is going to answer, each of them looking equally awkward. “I’d say they’re probably trying to find similarities between you and Gareth,” Montague says, saving them from doing so.

“You tell everyone else as well, then?” Gwaine mutters, both audibly and visibly irritated.

Lancelot feels a flush of guilt, even though he knows he was correct in telling them. He opens him mouth to confess, only to receive a sharp pain in his shin in return. “So what if I did?” Montague shrugs, facing Gwaine although he keeps his eyes on Lancelot. In his surprise firstly at him lying and secondly at being kicked under the table in a way that distinctly conveys _shut up_ , Lancelot does not contradict him.

“So what if you-” Gwaine echoes with considerably more volume. “What the fuck makes you think you had the right to do that!” It is not a question, not even close to it, and Lancelot attempts a second time to take the blame; he may not like Montague – a fact that is extremely unlikely to change, because whilst Gwaine made inadvisable choices and has no one but himself to blame for them, the implication that Merlin was offering himself for Arthur and the knights’ pleasure is not something Lancelot can forgive – but he dislikes letting others take the blame for his actions more. He is silenced by a second swift kick to the shin, harder than the first.

Montague narrows his eyes briefly at him, then turns a smug grin on Gwaine. “No right,” he says, “None whatsoever. Just thought it seemed like a good idea at the time.” He makes no effort to look repentant – but then why should he? – and Lancelot wonders not only why he is taking the blame without providing any sort of reason for why he would have told them, had he actually done so, but why no one else is telling Gwaine the truth.

“Whilst I am sure you had your reasons for not informing us, Gwaine,” Leon says, soft and rational, although the slight grimace as he speaks suggests he doubts Gwaine’s reasons are actually any good, “I do believe it is for the best that _someone_ shared with us the exact nature of your acquaintance with Gareth.” He flinches on finishing his sentence, as do Elyan and Percival, just a little, as if only then realising that he has made some sort of reference to the fact that Gareth’s rooming with Gwaine could and, in fact, is being grossly misunderstood.

Fortunately, Gwaine is still fuming too much to pick up on it, even as Montague points out, “Interesting that you’re not angry I told Merlin,” which of course only distracts him further.

“That’s different,” Gwaine states indignantly. “Merlin already knew.”

“No,” Lancelot disagrees, deeming this something he can safely say without risk of incurring further bruises. “Merlin most definitely did not know.”

“Not that Gareth’s my brother, maybe,” Gwaine tells them. “But he knew about our father alre-”

He shuts up without finishing his sentence, and Lancelot realises what Gwaine’s anger is all about – at the same time as everyone else, he thinks, given the way they are all currently wearing similar expressions of abrupt and rather exasperated understanding. “Do you really think any of us care who your parents are?” he asks after a moment.

“Honestly, Gwaine,” Leon continues. “No one gives a damn. And, just in case you’ve forgotten, you aren’t the only one of us of noble parentage.” He stares at Gwaine until he ducks his head, hair not quite managing to hide the pinkness of his cheeks.

“That wasn’t what…” Gwaine says, glancing at Gareth and then back at the rest of them. “I’m not _ashamed_. I just don’t think it should matter.”

“I think,” Gareth tells him, patting his arm kindly, “that the point they’re trying to make is that it doesn’t.” He waits for Gwaine to nod, and Lancelot is relieved to see that he is smiling, even if he still looks a little embarrassed. “And now that we’ve established that you aren’t ashamed of being related to me, and that there is absolutely no reason for everyone not to know, perhaps you should apologise to Sir Montague. Particularly seeing as it- _ow_!”

“Particularly seeing as it…?” Elyan asks, head tilted to one side as he looks at Lancelot; it feels like a reprimand, and Lancelot cannot say he does not deserve it, even if Montague seems absurdly determined in his quest to secure Gwaine’s wrath today.

“Nothing,” Gareth answers with a baleful glare at Montague. “I take it back, anyway. He doesn’t deserve it.” Fortunately (not only for Montague’s sake, because he and Gwaine are sitting diagonally opposite one another at the table, which rather leaves the rest of them in the line of fire), Gareth says nothing further, and they eat in peace, or as close to it as they are ever likely to get. Nothing is thrown, at any rate, and no blood is shed, so Lancelot considers it an achievement after the way the meal began.

“Why?” Lancelot asks quietly as he, Montague and Leon follow Gwaine and Gareth from the hall, Elyan and Percival having finished eating and departed several minutes earlier.

“He already dislikes me,” Montague replies, confirming Lancelot’s belief that he would understand the question without further explanation, “And he already knew I’d told Merlin. I didn’t see any reason for him to be angry at you as well, if he decided to be annoyed about it.”

Lancelot walks most of the way to the training cellar before he finds the words to convey his gratitude without actually appearing grateful. “Next time you take it upon yourself to protect me, please do so without physical abuse.”

Leon glances at the pair of them, disapproval written across his face (although Lancelot is not quite sure which of them it is directed at), but Montague only laughs. “You’re welcome, Sir Lancelot,” he says.

Lancelot tries not to be annoyed.

X

“You’re late, Sir Gwaine,” Arthur announces with great displeasure as he and Gareth enter the cellar.

“I do apologise, sire,” Gwaine answers, mustering an almost dangerous level of sarcasm, and glances back at the knights still entering the room behind them, Lance, Leon and Montague amongst them (not, he thinks, that Montague is a whole lot less likely to have Arthur shouting at him than Gwaine is, but Arthur isn’t likely to accuse the others of lateness unless they actually were). “I hadn’t realised you were holding training earlier than usual, and in the absence of approximately half your knights.”

Gareth gasps, some combination of horror and mortification, and makes an effort at planting an elbow in Gwaine’s side. Seeing as Gwaine is currently wearing armour, it’s probably a little less effective than he wants it to be, although had it actually hurt Gwaine would have been pissed ( _more_ pissed, rather, after the morning he’s already had).

“You also seem to have forgotten the requirement for a full uniform, too,” Arthur continues, like Gwaine hasn’t just made a mockery of his first complaint. “Where is your cloak?”

“Misplaced it,” Gwaine lies, trying not to glance at Merlin, lurking well within hearing distance, because he didn’t want to talk about it with Lance last night or Merlin this morning and he isn’t going to want to talk about it with Arthur _ever_.

“‘Misplaced it’ _where_?”

Gwaine shrugs, offers his cockiest grin, and says, “If I knew that, it would hardly be misplaced now, would it?”

He suspects that one might be pushing Arthur’s tolerance a little too far, given the alarming shade of red his face is going (speaking of cloaks…), and braces himself for something very loud and very angry in response. Arthur has barely opened his mouth, however, when a solid (and surprisingly successful) attempt at interruption is made.

“Wow,” Montague drawls from somewhere closer to them than Gwaine had been expecting him to be. “I see what you mean, Elyan. He has no idea at all what respect is. I’d never have believed anyone could be quite so stupid as to address their king like that if I hadn’t seen it for myself.”

“You don’t know him well enough, though,” Gareth answers, apparently comfortable enough with the change of subject to forget that Montague actually knows Gwaine fairly well, and in an entirely different way to everyone else present (including Merlin, because just the thought of considering being with Merlin as remotely the same thing as fucking Montague makes Gwaine’s breakfast want to reappear). “Gwaine has his own special scale of stupidity by which his actions should be judged.”

Their audience – because between Gwaine’s bickering with Arthur, Montague’s interruption, and Gareth’s teasing (that coming after the instruction to apologise, and Gwaine is sure as hell going to be having angry, _angry_ words with him as soon as he gets the chance) they’ve gathered more than a few spectators – chuckles appreciatively, and Arthur casts a look at Gareth that suggests he has absolutely no idea what to make of him.

Gwaine throws an arm around his brother’s shoulders and scrubs a hand through his hair with equal parts vigour and affection (because he still loves the kid, even if he is  an annoying little shit). “Merlin?” he calls, pretending their pre-breakfast conversation never happened.

“Yeah?” Merlin asks, smiling at Gwaine like he hung the moon, then added the sun and stars just for good measure (odd, but then it’s probably directed at Arthur instead, given how close they’re standing). He ambles over to join them, the knights parting to allow him through.

Gwaine returns the smile at what he knows is less than full strength, ignoring the way Arthur’s expression darkens considerably. “You mind if ‘Reth sits with you while we’re training? Figure you’re probably the best person to tell him what’s what here.”

“Of cour-”

“ _I mind_ ,” Arthur cuts in over Merlin’s agreement, directing a medusa-like glare at Gwaine. “What, precisely, gave you the idea that that might be an acceptable thing to request?”

“Oh,” Gareth says, answering before Gwaine can (and Gwaine had no intention of being anywhere near as polite as he reckons his brother is about to be). “I’m sorry, sire,” he continues and oh, gods, that’s an actual bow, deep and respectful and entirely sincere. “If I’d known me being here was going to be a problem, I… I’m sorry.” He looks up then, and Gwaine sees something in Arthur’s face flicker, a reduction of his anger just slightly; Gwaine figures his brother is wearing his _you just kicked a puppy_ face. Which would be all good and well if it was deliberate, if it was conniving and manipulative, but it isn’t; Gareth genuinely looks like that, whenever he’s seriously upset by something.

Arthur looks from Gwaine to Gareth to Merlin, indecision clear on his face. “Sit,” he instructs after almost a minute, pointing Gareth in the direction of the darkest, dankest corner of the cellar. “Do not speak, and the second you end up in someone’s way you’re out of here. Merlin, with Lancelot. The rest of you, lose the weapons. We’re practicing hand-to-hand combat today.”

His tone leaves no room for disagreement. The knights move as one to the weapons racks, Merlin allows Lancelot to lead him to an out of the way area, and Gareth spews gratitude until Gwaine claps a hand on his shoulder and shoves him towards the base of a pillar that is a whole lot better lit than the corner Arthur directed him to, all the while thinking that this cannot possibly end well for him.

X

Arthur’s mood doesn’t surprise Merlin in the slightest, and he finds himself itching to correct it, particularly seeing as Gareth looks bewildered as to why the king of Camelot hates him so immediately. Gwaine seems equally nonplussed ( _idiot_ , Merlin thinks fondly, and wonders how on earth Gwaine hasn’t realised the conclusion everyone is drawing about the fact that he has another man quite obviously staying in his room), although rather than looking mildly afraid of Arthur’s wrath, as Gareth is and any sensible man should, he’s standing up to it (and, Merlin suspects a little guiltily, deliberately aggravating him just because he can).

Merlin wants to stop Arthur, but when they’ve managed to gather quite a crowd of knights he thinks making some sort of comment about Gwaine’s _brother_ won’t go down well, not when Gwaine doesn’t want everyone to know that he’s a noble by birth, and whilst announcing, _yeah, Arthur, they’re not shagging_ will solve the problem, it will be equally complicated. At the very least, people would wonder why Arthur suddenly stopped shouting, and Merlin would rather know that he and Gwaine are going to work out before letting absolutely everyone know what’s going on.

“What did you do yesterday?” Lancelot asks, as soon as Merlin has followed him far enough away from the others that they aren’t going to be overheard.

“Um,” Merlin answers, because whilst rationally he’d known Lancelot was going to want to hear how Merlin’s mad dash after Gwaine had gone, he wasn’t expecting an interrogation quite so soon. “I found him, told him that what he saw didn’t mean anything, we kissed, and then he apologised and ran off before I could mention feelings. And I might have cried on him, too, and it’s possible I’m the reason he doesn’t have his cloak today.” He’d meant to return it, he really had, but he knew he wasn’t going to have time before breakfast and had sort of hoped that if they didn’t have an audience an _I just came to return this_ would serve to begin a conversation that could somehow lead into _I love you_ s and getting well and truly reacquainted.

“He apologised?” Lance repeats, focusing on the part of Merlin’s explanation that baffles Merlin the most.

“Yeah. He told me he was sorry, that he shouldn’t have done it, like it was him that started it rather than the other way around, and that there’s no point in wishing things had gone differently when I thought I was doing the right thing.” Merlin sighs, then realises how lovesick he sounds, and feels obliged to add, “Sorry.”

Lancelot shakes his head, then pats Merlin’s shoulder. “And this morning?”

“He said he wanted breakfast and that I should talk to him later. And I will.” Merlin nods firmly, just the once, emphasising his point, then pauses to watch as Arthur pairs up the knights.

“Oh, for…” Lancelot says, actually throwing his hands in the air as Arthur requests Gwaine’s help in demonstrating some sort of move that looks rather more like a punch in the stomach than anything of complex tactical merit. “Go get Gareth. There is no need for him to sit and watch the king needlessly causing harm to his brother. I know Gwaine has been teaching him, but I was wondering if he was better than you.”

“Arthur won’t like it,” Merlin replies, grimacing at Lancelot’s half-joking remark; sure, Merlin manages to be a danger to everyone in the area when armed, but he isn’t the one with knightly ambitions.

“Arthur will lose interest as soon as someone – by which I mean you or I, if Gwaine cannot be instructed to do so – tells him who Gareth is.” Merlin smiles at him, entirely in agreement, and goes to ask Gareth to join them, wincing when he hears Gwaine ask when he gets a turn (gods, it’s like he actually _wants_ to be banished).

_Please_ , Merlin thinks when Arthur just smiles, a look that reminds Merlin of the stocks and mucking out stables and heavy things thrown near his head. _Please, no broken bones_.

X

Gwaine dislikes gauntlets. He dislikes boots. He dislikes being instructed in hand-to-hand combat (and just how does Arthur think he lived to this age, anyway? He could teach the king a thing or two about fighting unarmed, even if Arthur thinks himself too honourable to use them). More than anything, he dislikes Arthur.

In fact, by the end of training today, about the only thing he doesn’t hate deeply and with an intensity that would scare most sane people is his armour, and the fact that it has probably saved him a bruise or two.

X

“You’re a prat,” Merlin says, pulling Arthur’s chainmail off over his head in the least gentle way possible. It’s the first full sentence he’s managed since he trailed Arthur from the cellar to his rooms, because apparently in the right circumstances he can be just as incoherent with rage as Arthur can. “And before you say anything, _sire_ , I will talk to you however I bloody well like, because you are being an arse.”

Arthur, when Merlin turns to look at him after putting his armour aside, is not wearing his _this is not how a servant should behave face_. Instead, he is pouting. “Merlin, I-”

“No, Arthur. Hurt Gwaine like that again and I will-” he silences himself before the words _hurt you_ can leap from his tongue, although he thinks Arthur knows they’re there. And yes, Merlin has thought in the past that he _could_ hurt Arthur, when he’s been in a pique with him over one thing or another, but he’s never actually told him that, never put real consideration into how he would do it, and he’s definitely never _wanted_ to. Not until now, at least, when his magic is dancing just under his skin and Gwaine is so close but not close enough.

“You’ll what?” Arthur asks, head tilted in question, tone making it so clear that he does indeed know the answer.

“I will stop you,” Merlin tells him, thinking that that’s possibly a slightly more acceptable answer. “I don’t care if you’re the king, Arthur, and I don’t care about the law. Gwaine hasn’t done anything wrong, and I won’t have you bullying him because you think you need to avenge my honour or something like that.”

All he gets in return is Arthur’s _trust me, Merlin, I know better than you_ look and an instruction to get Arthur his lunch. He obeys, pushing down the urge to explain everything, because Gwaine deserves the chance to do so himself. If Gwaine hasn’t made things absolutely clear by the end of the day, he tells himself. Then and only then is he going to allow himself to interfere.

X

Gwaine limps away from the cellar – limps, for fuck’s sake, and how the hell that happened he hasn’t a bloody clue – and heads towards the hall for lunch, waving away multiple concerned glances – and if they’re all so worried, why didn’t anyone speak up when Arthur took it into his head to beat him black and blue for no reason Gwaine understands? – as he goes.

“You should probably see Gaius,” Leon says as they walk. As does Elyan, several minutes later. And Lance, halfway up the next flight of stairs (Gwaine’s fine, honestly, he just has to pause for breath, which maybe hurts a little but it’s not the sharp, jabbing pain of broken ribs so it’s _fine_ ). He lets Percival get away with suggesting it, too, shortly after they start moving again, although when Montague starts in on him Gwaine tells him loudly and angrily to _shut the fuck up_ before he gets two words out. Gareth stays silent, at least about Gwaine’s injuries, although topics relating to Merlin and Lancelot and how wonderfully kind they are to let him train with them are an entirely different matter.

“I believe,” Lance says, when ‘Reth pauses for breath and Gwaine turns down the sixth suggestion that he seek medical assistance, “that if you were to tell Arthur, he would probably be slightly less inclined to use you to demonstrate a variety of excessively violent manoeuvres.”

Gwaine stops, staring at him, then attempts to lean against the wall nearest to him without it actually looking like that’s what he’s doing. Given his relieved sigh when the weight is taken off his injured knee and the fact that the others are suddenly crowded around him after taking concerned steps forwards, he thinks he failed. “Right,” he mutters, trying not to feel claustrophobic, then decides to let his anger take precedence over his hurt. “One of you is going to tell me what’s going on. You have less than a minute to start talking, or I’ll find a way to make you.”

They’re all suddenly very eager to look anywhere but at him (that, or the majority of them have all got new boots recently that are vastly more interesting than boots have any right to be), apart from Gareth, at least, who has the good manners to let Gwaine see just how confused he is.

“Someone _is_ going to tell me something,” Gwaine insists, and right now the only way to describe his mood is _furious_. “I really don’t give a shit who it is, and the quicker I find out, the quicker this conversation is done.” The silence continues for far longer than Gwaine is happy with, and he’s just about ready to start with threats – he reckons just mentioning Gwen will be enough to get something from Lance, and if not there’s a more than reasonable chance that however much Arthur hates him right now he still dislikes Montague more, and, sure, Gwaine probably won’t _actually_ be able to persuade Merlin to tell Arthur he wants Montague gone, but he doubts Montague knows that – when Leon looks up from the floor, squares his shoulders, and nods.

“Okay, then,” he announces. “Right. Elyan, Percival, go with Gareth to get lunch. Gwaine, we’re going down to Gaius’ to get your injuries seen to.” Gwaine prepares himself to loudly disagree with him, but Leon shakes his head. “Gwaine, we _are_ going to see Gaius, and we will talk on the way down. Lancelot, Montague, take your pick.”

“I am with you,” Lance says, and it sounds absurdly like a declaration of loyalty. To Gwaine’s surprise, Montague nods, waving a hand in the direction the others want to be headed in with an exaggerated flourish. Gareth sets off that way without a second thought, while Percival and Elyan hesitate until Leon frowns at them, and then they too move.

Gwaine forces himself to give up his nice, comfortable, _stable_ piece of wall, then realises quite how much of a mistake stopping was because his knee has locked up. He staggers, managing only a few lurching steps before Lance moves up beside him. He tugs Gwaine’s arm over his shoulder, sliding his own around Gwaine’s waist and supporting his weight as they walk.

“Right,” Leon repeats, slowing to keep pace with them. “You are aware, of course, that your behaviour during your first few months in Camelot was less than savoury, nor did you make very much effort at discretion.” Gwaine wonders whether he has any right (or means) to defend himself against what appears to be Leon’s incredibly polite way of calling him a slut, but he isn’t really given the chance. “Certainly, you had a couple of months of good behaviour-”

“I think,” Gwaine interrupts, because while he’s allowed himself to be silenced twice in a very short space of time, he’s not going to let that one stand, “that most people would call that a relationship.”

Leon pauses, and Gwaine halts (as does Lance, largely against his will), the awareness that he doesn’t actually know if Leon knows coming just a little too late. He must know, he must, because he’s far from unintelligent and has all the evidence needed to work it out, but Gwaine doesn’t actually know that he does. Leon just holds his eyes for a moment, offers a twitch of his lips that may be a smile (but may just as easily be a frown or a grimace) in acknowledgement of Gwaine’s words, and resumes what Gwaine hopes is going to turn into an explanation within a few sentences. “Be that as it may,” he says, gesturing them onwards, “Arthur is not the only one to assume you have returned to form, in light of recent events.”

“I am here, you know,” Montague states. He walks backwards for a few steps so that they can all see his smirk, then faces forwards again. “And, Sir Leon, we all know what you’re talking about, so you might as well just say what you mean. It’ll get us to the yelling part of this conversation so much quicker.”

“In that case, you explain,” Leon snaps, then seems to regret it immediately when Montague does just that.

“Merlin left Gwaine,” he states, and it’s really only Lance’s arm around his waist that stops Gwaine making an attempt to lunge at him for his blithe tone. “Gwaine left Camelot. An unfortunate mix of alcohol, misery, and my charm and amazing powers of persuasion led to circumstances of which we will never speak again, sorry, Gwaine. People found out – again, sorry, Gwaine – and then you come back here with Gareth, make no secret of the fact that’s he’s staying in your room, and everyone figures, _hey, it’s not a whole lot worse than anything else you’ve done_.”

“Yes, thank you, Sir Montague.” Leon succeeds finally in interrupting his explanation (although Gwaine thinks – hopes, so very desperately hopes, in amongst all his disgust and horror – that that is the end of it), and while his voice is no louder than before there is a very definite _tone_ to it. “Look, Gwaine, we all realise what a conclusion that is to draw, and it’s not like any of us wanted to think it. All the evidence seemed to lead in that direction, however, and-”

“I apologise,” Gwaine says, finding himself stationary, ineffably appalled, and almost painfully grateful to Montague. “Absolutely and without reservation, since it seems that rather than shouting at you at breakfast this morning I should actually have been thanking you, Montague.”

Montague laughs, ignoring Leon’s attempts to continue explaining just as much as Gwaine is. “You’re forgiven. And, anyway, any gratitude should be directed at Sir Lancelot, who actually told everyone. Not that it wasn’t just as important that Merlin knew, but I only told him, really.”

Gwaine is just about to thank Lance as well – he doesn’t really need the details; it’s enough to know that the pair of them were trying to help him out – when that one sinks in, and his immediate reaction is denial. “No.” It comes out as a croak rather than anything close to an actual word, so he tries again. “No. Merlin _wouldn’t_.”

“Merlin was not thinking rationally,” Lance interjects, sounding so very _kind_ , and Gwaine wants to deny it again, but if Montague and Lance both say Merlin was thinking that, and Leon says that everyone else is as well… It hurts. It hurts in a way that having everyone else assume he’d do that doesn’t. “People in love rarely do. Merlin was-”

“Leave it, Lance,” Gwaine says, throwing off his supporting arm and limping along under his own power. He doesn’t need a reminder of how stupid he’s been, or how Merlin feels for Arthur, not that he sees why either of those things are relevant to this. “I can make it to Gaius’ from here, thanks.”

Three voices protest simultaneously, and it’s not like Gwaine’s in any position to run away from them but he can, at the very least, pretend they’re not there.

X

He leaves Gaius’ with a bandage wrapped tightly around his right knee, a salve for his bruises (mostly just his ribs, but his back hit the ground fairly hard more than once, his arms blocked a couple of blows, and his knuckles aren’t too great either, given how very unwilling he was to stand around getting hit without landing a punch or two himself when he thought Arthur wouldn’t kill him for it), and strict instructions not to enrage anyone else for at least a week. He succeeds in sending Lance, Leon and Montague off to get lunch, mostly by promising that he’ll join them as soon as he’s done talking to Arthur.

Accepting Gaius’ offer of a servant to run his armour up to his room but refusing a crutch (he has his pride, goddamnit, and his leg isn’t _that_ bad anyway), Gwaine makes his way to Arthur’s room with excruciating slowness, shoving the door open without knocking. The king looks up from his lunch and glares, but after the morning he’s had, Gwaine is decidedly not bothered by that.

“Sir Gwaine,” he says, sneering. “How wonderful to see you.”

For some reason, Gwaine thinks he’s lying.

“Arthur,” Merlin warns, pausing in the process of making Arthur’s bed. “Let him speak, please.”

Arthur stares long and hard at Merlin, then sighs in a resigned way and turns his gaze back to Gwaine. “Speak.”

“I just want to thank you, Arthur,” Gwaine says, sarcastic as he can. “My younger brother has heard all kinds of wondrous things about you, and in one day you have done more to convince him you are unworthy of your glowing reputation than I could have done in my entire life.”

Arthur takes a stupid amount of time to work that one out, food hovering halfway between his plate and his mouth. Eventually, he puts the fork down and pushes his chair back. “Brother,” he repeats, like it’s a word he’s never heard before. “Gareth.” And then, a moment or two later, and with a look of abject confusion on his face, “Third son of Lord Lot and Lady Anna of Caerleon.” Gwaine doesn’t say anything, just lets him think (he knows how hard Arthur finds that sometimes), although Arthur’s conclusion isn’t what he expects. “Interesting that you lied about that.”

Gwaine wonders how that can still hurt him, when everyone in the city has apparently assumed that he’s shagging Gareth – he’s barely more than a boy, for crying out loud, and they all think what? That Gwaine’s taking advantage of his youth and naivety seems to be the best possible interpretation, but it’s entirely possible that at least someone has wondered if he’s offering to train Gareth in exchange for sex, or thought something equally offensive about Gwaine’s character.

“I didn’t,” he answers, not even trying not to sound hostile. “Sir Gwaine of Camelot, second son of Lord Lot and Lady Anna of Caerleon.” He gives the most over the top bow he can manage, then turns to leave. “That was all.”

“Actually,” Merlin says, and Gwaine feels a hand on his arm before he even knows Merlin has moved from his spot by the bed. “Gwaine, I-”

“Whatever it was you wanted to say this morning, you really don’t want to talk to me right now, Merlin,” Gwaine tells him, turning to look at him as he shrugs his hand away. “Because it’s not like this doesn’t hurt, coming from everyone else. And maybe I deserve it, after some of the shit I’ve done, but you? Sure, you don’t feel the same, but you slept in my bed for months. I would do anything for you, and you fucking well know that, so that you think I’d come back here, to your city, with some _child_ I was bedding… You have no idea what that feels like.” He stops, looking Merlin in the eye, sees him there all guileless and apologetic and not in the slightest bit _his_. “You know me better than that, Merlin. I know you don’t love me, but I thought at least that much was true.”

Today, battered and bruised as he is, Gwaine knows he doesn’t have a chance of making it as far as his room without Merlin catching up to him. Then again, today, Merlin doesn’t try following him.

As victories go, it’s hollower than an egg shell, but Gwaine’s always known not to ask for more than he’s going to get.

X

For three days, Merlin sees Gwaine only in glimpses. Given his injuries, Gwaine has permission not to attend training (at least, that’s how Gareth phrases, it, when Merlin asks him where Gwaine is the first morning. When he asks Gaius later on, the word he uses is _forbidden_ , along with _explicitly_ and _absolutely_ ), so he tends to be late, if he shows up at all, seemingly content to entrust his brother’s well being and instruction to Lancelot. Merlin thinks Gwaine is eating breakfast later, too, once the knights have already left, and his newfound tendency to get up and leave whenever anyone other than Gareth, Montague or Lancelot enters the dining hall for lunch or dinner (or, for that matter, any other room Gwaine happens to be in) has neither passed unnoticed nor been uncommented upon.

Add in the fact that Gwaine is never in his room when Merlin tries to find him there, and Merlin’s only real consolation is that Gwaine is apparently avoiding everyone, not just him.

Three days, and being kept at a distance like this feels worse than when the distance between them was actual. Three days, and what ends it is less intention on Gwaine’s part than it is an accident on Merlin’s. Three days, before he gets another chance to try fix things between them.

Needless to say, he kind of buggers up this one, too, but he’s not entirely sure it’s his fault.

X

Day three is the first council meeting since Gwaine got back. That perhaps isn’t the best way for Merlin to identify it – it’s also the first time Arthur has invited Lancelot to sit on his council as an advisor, and the first time Merlin has found himself in the presence of Roger the page since his deeply misguided attempt at flirtation without having an excuse to escape.

Either way, though, it’s not a day he’s particularly expecting to see Gwaine on, required as he is to stand around behind Arthur’s shoulder pouring him wine when he asks for it, fetching maps and documents, and muttering his opinion to anyone he thinks is suggestible enough to repeat it. It’s not for lack of trying, because no matter how apologetic Arthur is – and he is, even if the words _I’m sorry_ aren’t a part of his vocabulary – he disagrees with Merlin’s suggestion that Gwaine deserves a place on the council too (it seems that singlehandedly saving most of the people of Camelot from starvation at the risk of one’s own life is not enough to make Arthur like a person, and his grudging respect is not quite enough to compensate for the anger that the king feels is a suitable equivalent to remorse).

The meeting itself is largely uneventful, beyond the subtle scorn some of the advisors Arthur has inherited from his father show to Lancelot. And Merlin, for that matter, after he spills a glass of wine on the lap of the most unpleasant man. An accident, he swears, although given the hot stew he drops on the first person to imply something less than complimentary about Gwen when the conversation moves, as it invariably does at these sessions, to Arthur’s upcoming nuptials, now only weeks away, it’s probably not all that believable a lie.

“Honestly, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur drawls with approving undertones, while Lance looks at Merlin with something akin to disappointment, like he’s just supposed to ignore the fact that his friends are being insulted. “How you manage to make it through each day without accidentally killing yourself is a mystery to me.”

“Luck,” Merlin answers, grinning at Arthur and steadfastly ignoring Lancelot (he doesn’t need to feel guilty about ruining the odd item of clothing every now and again, particularly when the snobby git wearing the clothing deserves it). “I’m just very, very lucky.”

“Well, you’re certainly something,” Arthur mutters, waving Merlin back from the table. “Now, if you’re done making a mess, we have important business to get back to.” He looks at his councillors, wearing his most absurdly stubborn expression (Merlin wishes he’d had the idea of giving him donkey’s ears before the goblin did, because they’d go perfectly with that face). “I don’t care if this will be the second major occasion to pass without a hideously overblown celebration. It is my wedding, I am king, and I have my people to think of. Until the winter is over, there will be no feast.”

X

From then on, the council session continues much as Merlin imagines Arthur had planned, the meeting long and dull. Little is decided, beyond the fact that Arthur’s arguments are solid enough that the matter of a feast can be dropped for the immediate future (although Merlin is sure it won’t be a particularly long immediate future, given how little time there is until the wedding), and Gwaine doesn’t have anything to do with it, exactly as Arthur wishes.

What is less to plan is the way Roger approaches Merlin as he goes to follow Arthur from the room, showing all that proper respect malarkey that Arthur is so very fond of. “My lord,” he says with a dignified bob, then switches his attention. “Merlin, I was hoping to speak to you.”

“Um,” Merlin answers, the very definition of eloquent. “Um, actually, I have to, erm, tidy! In Ar- King Arthur’s rooms.” And then, because for all he wants to avoid this, absolutely and definitely and forever, if possible, he doesn’t exactly feel good about doing so, “I’m sorry.”

Roger’s eye twitches and he smiles a tight, controlled smile. “I see. My apologies. I shan’t keep you from your duties.”

His words are very clearly for Arthur’s benefit, but Merlin doesn’t really care too much, as long as he’s escaping. And he is, up until the moment when Arthur, with a subtle air that suggests this is his gratitude for Merlin defending Gwen and Lance, says, “Nonsense.”

_Oh, bugger_ , Merlin thinks, and tries to find a way to communicate that Arthur’s kindness (and the great oaf probably believes that’s what it is, so Merlin does his best to avoid thinking the word in too sarcastic a way) really isn’t necessary on this occasion. Unfortunately, he’s always been bollocks at telepathy unless the person he’s speaking with instigates it, so Arthur barrels on, clueless in his generosity. “The mess isn’t going anywhere, Merlin. Talk to your friend, and you can deal with it later.”

Wonderful. Just fan-freaking-tastic. “That really isn’t necessary, _sire_ ,” Merlin replies, hoping it sounds an awful lot like _you are the most dense man I have ever met_. “I’m sure you have things to do that a mess is not conducive to the doing of.”

Arthur’s slightly squinty frown implies that that sentence is just as ridiculous to hear as it is to say, and Merlin sighs, casting his gaze around for either Lancelot or Leon, the former because he might actually know why Merlin wants to escape and be inclined to help him, and the latter because he is an excellent person to hide behind. Unfortunately, Lance spent the meeting getting steadily more melancholic (not that that is in the least bit surprising, and while it’s great that Arthur wants to show trust and respect and whatever other rubbish he thinks being given the honour of a seat on the council conveys, couldn’t he have waited until a slightly better time to do so?), and disappeared as soon as it was over; whilst Merlin doesn’t know where he’s run to, he supposes he can’t really begrudge him the need to escape.

Leon, however, he can definitely begrudge, since he has no reason to flee and, as far as Merlin is aware, anyway, nowhere of any significance to be, but begrudging his absence doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone. Merlin has little choice but to face up to the consequences of his actions (and it is his actions that are the problem, there is no denying that, because he was he who chose firstly to seek Gwen’s advice and secondly to follow it).

“Thanks, Arthur,” he says, not actually managing to sound the slightest bit grateful. “I’ll see you later,” he adds, and finally, finally, Arthur seems to work out that his response wasn’t exactly what Merlin wanted, but it’s far too late for him to change it now.

Merlin follows Roger from the hall, smiling weakly each time the other man glances back to see if he’s still there (which is offensively often, because even if Merlin really, really wanted to avoid this conversation, he’s agreed to having it and isn’t quite cowardly enough to run away when Roger’s back is turned). Roger stops shortly along a corridor that Merlin knows dead-ends just around the corner from them, and in the brief seconds it takes Merlin to realise this he’s walked past him; Roger steps into the middle of the corridor, a move that both blocks Merlin’s exit and changes the conversation from merely uncomfortable to just a little bit threatening. Not that Merlin is actually trapped, but using magic to get out of this mess is only going to complicate things further and, Merlin thinks, they are quite complicated enough already.

“You vanished fairly quickly the other night,” Roger says sullenly, once he’s finished his silent evaluation of Merlin.

Merlin can’t tell if it’s an accusation or simply a question, and he’s fairly sure this won’t get any better if he guesses and is wrong. He shrugs and nods, eyes fixed on some totally insignificant point just over Roger’s shoulder, and seriously wishes Gwaine had listened to him the first night he got back; it wouldn’t have done anything to mean that this conversation wasn’t happening, but chances are Gwaine would have been waiting outside the hall for Merlin when the meeting ended and he wouldn’t be having it on his own.

“A shrug? That’s all you’re going to give me?”

“Sorry?” Merlin tries, knowing it’s not going to help in the slightest. “I just… I had… I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t mean to… lead you on, I suppose.”

That gets only a, “No, of course not,” cool scepticism infecting every syllable.

“I didn’t,” Merlin repeats, feeling like dirt even though it’s mostly true. The only thing he actually meant to do was get Gwaine’s attention, find out if he still wanted him; everything else is just a consequence of that aim, and something Merlin should have anticipated, would have anticipated if he’d actually been capable of sensible thought. “I know what I did wasn’t kind, but I didn’t intend to hurt you.”

“Right. You just thought you’d find an interested stranger, flirt a little, and then get one of your friends to come to the rescue when you got bored. Why would that possibly cause anyone any unhappiness?”

“No!” Merlin says, like the extra volume will make this denial more believable than the ones before. “No, that wasn’t what it was.”

“Oh? Then what was it, Merlin?”

Merlin opens his mouth but no words come out. He doesn’t know how to explain, because his reasons were pretty damn crappy, particularly seeing as he hasn’t got Gwaine back anyway. Yet, at least. He closes his mouth again, not even attempting eye contact.

Roger scowls, and Merlin has barely a moment to brace himself for his next words, knowing they aren’t going to be anything he’ll like. “What, did all your knight friends suddenly realise they could do better than you?”

Merlin tries, so very hard, to hide the way this question makes him flinch, makes his stomach twist and his imagination run wild. He is hit with images of Gwaine and strangers, Gwaine and people Merlin knows, Gwaine and anyone not him.

Gwaine and Montague, which is by far the worst of all since it actually happened.

And he knows that wasn’t what it was, when Montague was so adamant that it was nothing, when Gwaine hasn’t shown anything other than tolerance for Montague. He knows, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought about it, doesn’t mean he hasn’t wondered if Gwaine thought Montague was better than him, if Gwaine has maybe thought about repeating it.

He also thinks, just a second or two too late, that denying Roger’s accusation might be a good idea.

“Oh,” Roger says, a gloating grin on his face even as his eyes widen a little. “Oh, wow. I’m right, aren’t I? Which one of them left you this time?”

“You’re not right,” Merlin denies, and wishes it felt a little less like a lie.

“But I am, aren’t I?” Roger crows; Merlin wonders how Gwen misjudged him so hugely, because he finds it hard to believe she would encourage him to flirt with someone who is firstly such a piss-poor judge of character – and why do people keep assuming Merlin’s having it off with multiple knights, anyway? – and secondly a serious arsehole. “I’m right. Whichever knight you were sleeping with got bored with you. Tell me, Merlin, were you just flirting to make him jealous, or were you hoping for a consolatory fuck?”

He steps forward and Merlin retreats, because the look in his eyes isn’t at all friendly. It’s bloody intimidating, actually, and Merlin maybe solicited this, maybe made the first move, but he doesn’t want _this_.

“It wasn’t that,” he says firmly and backs up further, remembering only when his back hits the wall that he doesn’t actually have anywhere to go. “It wasn’t anything.” And then, because he feels the need to make an effort at a clearly stated attempt to get out of here before resorting to a magical attempt, Merlin adds, “I’d like to leave, please.” The politeness turns his stomach.

“Would you, now?” Roger asks, voice low, and there’s no way the threat in it is accidental, not when it’s that obvious. “You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

“I’m with someone,” Merlin blurts out, and sure, he’s never been great at lying except for whenever his life is on the line (and even then, some of the stories Arthur has believed in the past are truly ridiculous), but he’s hoping a healthy dose of the truth will make this one believable. “We were arguing, which is why I was talking with you, but I couldn’t, didn’t want to follow through with it, so I went to talk to him.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, then slurs quickly what is actually a gross untruth. “We fixed things.”

Roger stares at him for a long moment, then smiles so very insincerely. “Yeah? Who?”

_Gwaine_ , Merlin thinks. _Gwaine, Gwaine, Gwaine, Gwaine, Gwaine._

He says nothing.

X

It starts as an itching in his feet, almost unnoticeable. Gwaine puts it down to his bashed-up knee, figuring he’s been on his feet for too long, and resigns himself to limping his way down to Gaius’ for more of his foul tasting pain relief potion, even if it makes him feel fuzzy and nauseous in a distinctly unpleasant way that doesn’t at all resemble the effects of alcohol.

“You alright?” Gareth asks, breaking off midway through a story about the absolutely amazing thing Lance is trying to teach he and Merlin at the moment.

“Yeah,” Gwaine agrees dismissively. “Just need to sit for a bit.”

Gareth nods, then turns to make his way from the area of the castle they’ve been roaming (‘Reth spends the morning training, Gwaine spends it sleeping, and then in the afternoon they walk around the castle trying to help ‘Reth learn his way around – he has a truly terrible sense of direction – sometimes joined by Lance or Montague, for as long as it takes for Gwaine’s limp to become too bad to hide). He gets a good half dozen paces before he realises that Gwaine isn’t following.

“You’re not moving,” he says, like he somehow thinks Gwaine hasn’t noticed that fact.

“No,” Gwaine replies, forcing a grin onto his face, because he’s pretty damn sure this is something to do with Merlin and he hasn’t shared all the details of that mess with his brother yet. “No, I don’t appear to be, do I?”

“Is this the wrong way?”

Since it’s the way they came from, Gwaine figures the question is rhetorical, but he shakes his head anyway. A muscle in his right thigh twitches, and his knee spasms painfully. “Yeah, you’re headed the right way. I’m just going to rest here a minute. I’ll see you later, brother.”

‘Reth looks at him in concern for a moment, then smiles. “If you’re sure,” he says, shrugging. “I’ll see if I can find Sir Lancelot, or someone.”

Gwaine winces, because Gareth is both a little too eager to agree to leaving him (and it might have been Gwaine’s instruction, but a little more reluctance might be nice) and a little too quick to suggest Lancelot as a person to spend the afternoon with. And it could just be harmless admiration, transference of the hero-worship he had for Gwaine as a kid, but at the same time Gwaine is worried that it’s maybe something else; it isn’t like Lance is at all a bad person for ‘Reth to idolise (his brother isn’t the only person guilty of putting Lance on a pedestal, after all), but his own doomed romance is more than enough to deal with right now.

With that in mind, Gwaine makes another attempt to follow his brother, because he isn’t ready to deal with Merlin, not until he manages to wash the sour taste of betrayal from his mouth. His feet are no less reluctant to go the way he wants them to, though, so Gwaine resigns himself to pandering to Merlin’s whims this time, and they are going to be having some seriously harsh words when Gwaine finds him.

Because that, unusually, is what he has to do; his feet are opposed to heading his way, but they aren’t exactly rushing to drag him off somewhere else. The corridor only extends in two directions, however, and since one of them is apparently not the one Merlin wants him to take, Gwaine ambles slowly down the only route he’s capable of taking. He is still able to stop, and makes a point of doing so as often as he wants, even as a tugging sensation begins in the pit of his stomach, not forcing him to walk but guiding him whenever the path forks.

_What the hell does Merlin want?_ Gwaine wonders, particularly since he’d made it pretty damn clear he didn’t want to talk to him the last time they spoke. And it’s not like Merlin has ever made all that much effort at actually listening to what Gwaine wants, nor is Gwaine particularly surprised that it’s come to this, but still. He’d quite like to know why Merlin requires his presence before he stumbles his way to wherever he is.

Before he can think up anything close to a probable reason for Merlin to find some new and slightly less pushy way to force him places against his will, the tug increases viciously and Gwaine breaks into a stumbling run for a few paces, each one of which feels like it’s trying to rip his knee to pieces.

“Alright, you git,” he shouts at the empty hallway, even though he’s pretty sure Merlin isn’t actually within hearing range, and forces his feet to slow to a slightly less agonising pace. “I’ve got the message.”

He regrets it instantly, because for all there’s no one within sight it doesn’t mean there isn’t anyone behind any of the doors in the vicinity, and he really doesn’t need rumours of insanity to make their way around the castle on top of what is apparently people’s current opinion of him. Nobody comes to investigate, though, so he counts it as a lucky escape, promises himself he won’t yell at nothing again for the foreseeable future, and heads towards Merlin as fast as is comfortable (or manageably uncomfortable, at least, and he’s adding Arthur to the list of people he’s planning on having angry words with very soon).

He follows the route Merlin wants him to take, noting with confusion that it’s not the quickest way there; he does have some idea where he’s going, given that most of the day has been devoted to a council meeting for those invited to join, and how Gareth thinks he’s going to find Lance Gwaine has no idea. If Gwaine was any sort of friend, he’d be planning on bawling out Merlin for not being around when Lance needs him, and maybe he’ll give that a few minutes when he’s done with yelling at him for playing puppeteer, but he just isn’t selfless enough to let Lance’s problems come first today. Which is also Merlin’s fault, he decides, because if he wasn’t being dragged around like Molly drags around her toys, he’d both be slightly less pissed off and be able to look for Lance himself, even if it’s only at this minute, as he walks past the door to the council chambers, that he actually manages to think about someone else’s love life, or lack thereof.

He forgets all the angry words he has planned when he hears Merlin’s voice, tight and controlled in a way that borders on panicked, and that? That Gwaine wasn’t expecting.

Not that he’s actually sure what he expected, but it definitely wasn’t that Merlin might actually need his help for something, not given the complete absence of urgency in his summons. Then he registers the words that Merlin is speaking in a slightly higher than usual tone of voice, a vague rehashing of the events of a few nights ago, and works out not only who he is talking to but what exactly Merlin wants him for; he wants a collaborator, someone to confirm the lies he’s telling to the creep he was flirting with to get Gwaine’s attention when he first got back.

“Yeah?” the creep demands when Merlin claims to be with someone (and it had better just be a claim, because Merlin kissing him is habit – one that should be broken, yes, but forgivable – whereas kissing Gwaine if he’s actually with someone is just _not_ ). “Who?”

Gwaine waits for his name, any name, and there are no words for how much he hates that Merlin has put him in this position, that he is enough of an idiot to come when Merlin calls him, like a lamb to the slaughter. Worse than that, though, is the fact that Merlin isn’t saying anything, is just waiting for Gwaine to step forwards and finish his story for him, cords of magic trying to pull Gwaine’s insides outside because he is just standing there, resisting the urge, both Merlin’s and his own, to come to the rescue.

“Really?” Creepy says. “Didn’t take the time to think up a name before spinning your little story, Merlin? What, did it not occur to you that I might want one before believing you?”

There is a moment of silence, and Gwaine finds himself moving forwards slowly, poking his head around the corner in time to see the creep wrap his hand around Merlin’s wrist. Merlin visibly makes an attempt to pull free, his eyes locked on the hand holding him, although since he dragged him here Gwaine can’t imagine Merlin doesn’t know he’s there.

“Let me go,” Merlin murmurs, so quietly that Gwaine is pretty much reading his lips. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

The creep laughs, obviously unimpressed, but Merlin’s face is without expression, and Gwaine thinks his threat is a pretty fucking serious one. He has no doubt about Merlin’s ability to defend himself, either, but there’s still the pesky thing where magic is outlawed on pain of death, and if this bastard is intimidating Merlin enough that he’s willing to use his magic, and all because Merlin skipped out on him mid-conversation, he’s not someone Gwaine wants Merlin’s secret entrusted to. He tells himself that’s why he’s making his presence known, to protect Merlin’s magic. It’s not because he’s jealous of the attention Merlin paid this bloke a few nights ago, not because he hates seeing someone else’s hands on Merlin, not because he wants to smash the bastard’s face in for threatening what is his, even though Merlin has made it pretty fucking clear he _isn’t_ Gwaine’s.

“Merlin,” he says, stepping out and plastering an easy smile on his face. “Here you are. Thought you were going to wait for me in the council chambers, love?” And if he’s internally damning Merlin to hell for making this be the first time he calls him that aloud and to his face, he’s pretty sure his voice doesn’t convey that fact.

Merlin looks surprised – absurd, given that he yanked Gwaine here against his will – but he adapts quickly, pulling his wrist from the creep’s suddenly lax grip and, when Gwaine skirts around the creep and stands next to him, slips his hand willingly into Gwaine’s. “Sorry,” he says, staring at Gwaine like he’s the only other person there. His palms are distinctly damp, more than a little unpleasant to hold, and his grip is just a bit too tight, but Gwaine doesn’t let go. _It’s just an act_ , Gwaine thinks viciously at the hideously optimistic part of his mind, _just to get Merlin out of this_ _mess_ ; he doesn’t wish it was real, isn’t _allowed_ to wish it was real. “I was just explaining things,” Merlin finishes, and he still sounds shaky.

“Things?” Gwaine asks; just because he’s coming to Merlin’s rescue, doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy for him.

“Us,” Merlin answers, squeezing Gwaine’s hand as he begs him with his eyes to help. “I know we weren’t going to tell everyone, but I thought I owed him an explanation.”

Gwaine holds his gaze, wondering when Merlin learnt to lie so fluently, or whether he thinks it’s okay since it was just about the truth back when they were together. “Right. Are you done?”

Merlin nods, then reluctantly – or so it seems, but it’s probably that awful issue with wishful thinking that Gwaine just cannot manage to shake – allows Gwaine his hand back. Gwaine turns away from him, advancing unsteadily on whatever-his-name-is (and if it would get him anything more than accusations of jealousy, he’d ask someone who he is, maybe get someone to track his movements, because this whole situation he’s walked in on is pretty damn not good and Gwaine sure as fuck does not want a repeat of it).

“You’ve got your explanation,” he says to him. “Now clear the fuck off. And the next time I find you within five yards of Merlin, I will make sure you regret it.”

Gwaine’s threat succeeds where Merlin’s did not, largely because he looks a whole lot more intimidating than Merlin does, even when injured. “Is that so?” the creep answers, gamely making an attempt at standing his ground, but it doesn’t last. He flinches under Gwaine’s stare before retreating, backing off slightly more literally than Gwaine is used to people doing, not turning away from them until he’s around the corner and out of sight.

X

Roger’s footsteps fade slowly, their volume decreasing as the tension in Gwaine’s shoulders grows. Merlin wants to reach out to soothe away the tightness sitting there, a tightness that Merlin knows must be his fault, even if he isn’t sure how or why. Gwaine steps out of reach before he can make contact, is most of the way to rounding the corner before Merlin works out that he’s intending to walk away without a word.

“Wait,” Merlin calls. “Where are you going?”

Gwaine turns very, very slowly, the expression on his face like nothing Merlin’s ever seen from him before, or not directed at him, at least. “Away, Merlin,” he says, shrugging, with a hideous, forced lightness to his voice. “If you’re half as clever as you think you are, you won’t try stop me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Merlin promises. “I mean, I want you to talk to me,” _more than almost anything_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say it, because he’s had time to think these last few days and it has to be Gwaine’s choice to listen to him, he has to do it of his own accord, not because Merlin makes him feel either obligated or forced into it. “I do, but I won’t make you. I just- thank you. For, I mean, just, _thank you_.”

“Don’t,” Gwaine tells him, and if Merlin thought the artificial airiness was bad his tone now is ice, colder than the weather outside. “Don’t you dare do this to me then have the gall to thank me for it.”

“I-” Merlin begins, then stops, because Gwaine’s glare doesn’t exactly seem conducive to that sentence ending with _don’t know what you’re talking about_ , however true it might be.

“You don’t get to drag me here, and you don’t get to be grateful when I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

That does make sense, that Merlin does understand, even if he doesn’t quite believe it. He’d thought the timing of Gwaine’s appearance was just a happy coincidence, incredibly fortuitous, but maybe, if what Gwaine is saying is true, it wasn’t. It was Merlin.

Merlin brought him here, put Gwaine in a position where his only options were either protect Merlin himself or watch Merlin reveal his magic to someone who cannot be trusted with the secret of it.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin gasps, and thinks his face reflects just how appalled he is, how awful he feels. “I’m so sorry, Gwaine. It was an accident, I didn’t mean to. I swear I wouldn’t.” Although how it happened, he doesn’t know, beyond the fact that he spent most of the conversation thinking of Gwaine, and that maybe his control over his magic isn’t quite as stable as he wants it to be, not when his emotions are so out of it.

“An accident,” Gwaine says, not exactly sounding believing. “Of course it was. You accidentally dragged me here just in time to lie for you. Very convenient.”

“I promise it was,” Merlin answers. “I promise. I know I hurt you, that it’s my fault Arthur hurt you, but I didn’t deliberately bring you here.” Gwaine still looks so painfully, horribly doubting, though, and Merlin knows that he isn’t going to believe him, not now, not until he’s less angry. This isn’t a fight Merlin can win right now, but… But maybe there’s a different one he can have instead, one that might have slightly better results.

X

“I promise,” Merlin says, and Gwaine doesn’t know if he wants to believe him or tell him to go to hell. He looks so sincere, but that doesn’t mean anything. Gwaine can’t let it mean anything, even if Merlin can’t lie worth a damn.

And then Merlin takes a step forwards, and another. “It doesn’t have to be a lie,” he says, reaching out with a smile, small but hopeful. Gwaine doesn’t return it, and Merlin’s next sentence falters slightly. “We could… I mean, we… It doesn’t have to be a _lie_.”

It takes Gwaine a moment to work out what Merlin means, a moment of sheer confusion as he wonders where Merlin’s complete change of topic is coming from and what the new topic actually is. Then the invitation sinks in, and he freezes. He wants to say yes, because Merlin wanting to get back together is entirely different to Merlin wanting him to lie about them being together. He wants to say yes, because months of absence have done nothing to change his feelings, however much he’d hoped they would. He still loves Merlin, would obviously still do everything for him no matter what he might have promised himself, still wants nothing other than to curl up with him every evening and wake up beside him every morning. He wants to say yes, but he doesn’t.

“What the _hell_ , Merlin?”

“I just meant-”

“Oh, I know what you meant,” Gwaine as good as snarls, taking a hefty step backwards, and is just a little bit amazed by how angry at Merlin he’s actually managing to sound. Some sort of instinct towards self-preservation is finally kicking in, months too late to do him any good, but there’s this tiny, stubborn part of his brain that can’t let Merlin hurt him anymore. “I’ve been back less than a week, Merlin. Four days, and you’ve decided you want me back?” Gwaine pauses, then realises he doesn’t actually want to give him a chance to talk. “You broke my fucking heart, Merlin. Perfectly happy to be with me when you thought I didn’t care – and how the fuck did you think that, anyway, because the gods know everyone else had figured it out already? – and then as soon as you found out I love you, you left me.”

“I know, but-”

“You know?” he spits, and finds himself monstrously desperate to hurt Merlin in return. “What do you know, Merlin? Do you know that you ending things as good as destroyed me? Do you know that leaving was the only way I could deal with it? Do you know that I fucked Montague the first night after I left here? Do you know that I as good as sold myself to him, like some two-bit whore?”

Merlin pales, sickeningly so, like Gwaine thought he could get any paler. “I don’t care,” he says bravely, even though it sounds an awful lot like he does. “It’s… I understand, I forgive you. Gwaine, I lo-”

“You forgive me? You forgive me!” Gwaine has never been so close to hitting Merlin before, has never felt any inclination to hit a lover before, but there’s no way Merlin hasn’t noticed how fucking furious he is. “Fuck. You.” He says. “Fuck you, Merlin. Where the fuck do you get off, _forgiving_ me?” He advances angrily on Merlin, knowing that later he will feel guilty for the fact that the only thing that stops him hurting him is his leg’s unwillingness to hold him up, but not now, not yet. “Sure, it takes me months to start feeling slightly less like shit because of you, and then Arthur sends Lance and- and _him_ to my house to demand I come back here just so that the king can beat me to a pulp defending your imagined honour, but hey, you forgive me, so it’s fine, right?”

“Gwaine, please,” Merlin murmurs, and doesn’t have the good sense to keep his distance. “I didn’t mean it like that. Oh, Gwaine, will you give me a chance, please? Just let me explain, let me try and fix this.”

Gwaine stares at him, swallowing down his anger and the bitter sorrow that wants to follow it. “And what happens if I say yes, Merlin? What happens if we get back together, and I let myself be happy again, and then one day you wake up and remember that you love him? What do I do then?” His voice softens with that last question, becomes hollow and incomplete, but then it might as well since that’s how he feels.

“I won’t,” Merlin says, reaching out a hand to place on Gwaine’s arm.

Gwaine flinches away before it lands, and he doesn’t want to be pushing Merlin away – gods, does he not want to push him away – but, melodramatic as it sounds, he doesn’t think he can survive Merlin ending things with him a second time. It’s not pride that makes him say no, because anyone with half a brain knows he doesn’t have an ounce of that where Merlin is concerned. Instead, he seems to have succeeded in locating the tiniest dregs of self-respect, and right now he can’t see a way he could possibly be with Merlin again. Not without a guarantee that events won’t just repeat themselves, and Merlin will never be able to give him one.

“You don’t know that, Merlin. You can’t promise me anything where Arthur is concerned.” Gwaine closes his eyes for a minute, because Merlin looks just as unhappy as he feels and he doesn’t like looking at it. “I’m going now,” he says, taking a breath before opening them. “Please, Merlin, don’t stop me.”

For whatever reason, Merlin doesn’t. Gwaine tells himself he’s grateful for that.

X

In hindsight, Merlin thinks he probably should have declared his love before offering forgiveness. Really, though, he’s not sure matters would have gone any better if he had.

X

His sorrow is not all-consuming, not in the slightest. Things would be easier if it was, perhaps, if Lancelot was so lost in his hopeless, doomed love that the rest of the world ceased to matter, but he is not.

He is unhappy, certainly, but then how could anyone listen to meetings in which the main topic of conversation is the marriage of the woman he loves to someone else and not be? It is not everything, though, and maybe he should never have expected it to be; Gwen is happy, at least, which does something to mitigate how much it pains him, and it is not as though Lancelot ever expected a future for he and Guinevere, not after he first saw how Arthur looks at her. He can be happy for her, for the pair of them, and that, somehow, gives him the ability to focus on things beyond his own heartache.

For example, he manages to pay attention to the vast majority of Gareth’s excessively enthusiastic (though earnest, Lancelot has to grant him that much) attempts at maintaining conversation, from the moment Gareth knocks on his door late in the afternoon – alone, an occurrence that is a little unusual given the time of day – to the moment they join the others for dinner in the hall. He notes the concern in Gareth’s voice when he explains how Gwaine chose not to come with him, and lets it pass without comment when the boy does not seem inclined to speak of it.

He also sees Merlin slip into the hall, far later than he ought to be, and sit away from them all, shoulders slumped and brow furrowed. He watches as Merlin pokes aimlessly at his plate for a few minutes before passing it off to a member of the guard sitting just down the table from him and eyeing his meal hungrily, and really, Lancelot thought Merlin had got over his foolish desire not to eat in the first month of Gwaine’s absence.

Merlin stands, looking about as happy as Lancelot feels, and Lancelot cannot decide whether he ought to follow him or wait where he is for Gwaine to appear in the hope that Gwaine can provide some enlightenment as to what is distressing Merlin. Except, of course, how much enlightening does it really need? Merlin’s unhappiness has had exactly one cause for a great many months, but then he knows Gwaine has been made equally unhappy by recent circumstances, and, ashamed as he is to admit it, Lancelot knows whose problems he would rather deal with.

Unfortunately, Gwaine has yet to appear by the time Lancelot has finished eating, despite the fact that he probably eats slower than he ever has in the past. Leon waits with him, tiredly responding to Gareth whenever he pauses for breath, and casting kind, concerned glances at Lancelot from time to time, to which Lancelot tries his hardest to reply with a smile.

Leon is a man gifted with almost endless patience, in Lancelot’s opinion, and his own, to his pride, is not a whole lot shorter, but Gareth is, apparently, not possessed of the ability to sit still and wait for a prolonged period of time. Within moments of Lancelot putting his cutlery down on his plate, Gareth has begun fidgeting: he taps his fingers on the table, swings his legs, accidentally kicks Lancelot three times and Leon at least twice (based on how many times he flinches and Gareth mumbles apologies under his breath), and glances at the door far too frequently.

“When did you last see your brother?” Leon asks the next time he winces, reaching down to rub his shin under the table.

“This afternoon,” Gareth says, then turns to Lancelot. “Not long before I came to find you.”

Leon turns to him as well, looking concerned; Lancelot thinks his expression is probably a perfect mirror, although he would rather not panic Gareth just yet. “Do you know where you left him?” is Leon’s follow up question. “Or, for that matter, where he intended to go and why he did not come with you?”

“He didn’t say. But I can probably take you there?”

“Worth a try, I suppose,” Leon says. “Unless you have a better idea, Lancelot?”

Lancelot pauses before replying, in the hope that he can come up with a positive answer. There is the possibility of Gwaine having decided to forgo supper entirely in order to go straight to the tavern – it would hardly be the first time an argument with Merlin has had that conclusion – but he thinks it unlikely; if Gareth is unaware of where he left Gwaine, they were probably in one of the less well-travelled areas of the castle at the time, so it is unlikely Gwaine has managed to walk far enough to get drunk, not after he walked to wherever his conversation with Merlin took place. In fact, Lancelot believes Gwaine is likely to still be wherever that was, and given how little time he had to mope in his room before Gareth found him there, Gwaine is potentially still somewhere in the region of the council hall.

“I may do,” Lancelot tells them. “Go that way anyway, please, Leon, in case I am wrong.” Or, for that matter, in case he is not, because Gwaine is highly unlikely to want company, particularly in the form of Gareth, who is obnoxiously cheerful at the best of times, and Leon, with whom he is still not on speaking terms. “I will find you in the tavern later?”

Leon stands, beckoning Gareth to follow him; Lancelot waits a few minutes before exiting the hall after them and retracing his steps from earlier on in the day, checking doors as he goes. Most of the rooms he looks in on are dark and, given the time of day, also unoccupied, although he does find himself offering an incredibly sincere apology when a cupboard turns out to be rather more full than Lancelot believes the average cupboard ought to be (one occupant would be a little peculiar, and two, whilst within his comprehension, is certainly not something he wants to walk in on. Three, however, must surely require a room slightly larger, and preferably with a door that locks).

He does not know why he pauses longer in the doorway of one particular room (not the cupboard filled past capacity) than he does in any other. It is not a lit room, and Lancelot cannot hear anything out of the ordinary. There is a shaft of moonlight falling into the room, though, and perhaps there is a whisper of breath, a glint of silvery light on metal, a subtle shifting in the shadows. Something, certainly, causes him to wait, taking a step inside and halting to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness.

“Hello?” he calls, softly, carefully; he has no desire to be observed speaking to an empty room, or to startle whoever may be there. “Is someone in here?”

“Lance?” Gwaine’s voice answers, just as quietly. “That you, mate?” The shadows shift again and Gwaine’s face appears, the moonlight reflecting oddly on his skin.

Lancelot closes the door behind him, settling on the floor by Gwaine. Gwaine leans back, resting his head against the wall again, and Lancelot realises the unusual reflectivity of his face is because it is shiny with what has to be tears. “It is,” he agrees, although given that they are now in contact from their shoulders to their shins the confirmation is largely unnecessary. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The sound Gwaine makes is halfway between a laugh and a sob, and he bumps his elbow against Lancelot’s. “Depends,” he says. “How badly do you need distracting from your life by hearing me complain about mine?”

“I take it that is a _no_ , then?” Lancelot replies, not quite sure whether or not to be grateful for Gwaine’s refusal. And then, because he is a true glutton for punishment, adds, “Is there anything I can do?”

Gwaine turns to look at him, alarmingly close for a second, then rest his forehead on Lancelot’s shoulder. “No. Appreciate the offer,” he mumbles into Lancelot’s sleeve, “but no.” He retreats quickly, dragging his sleeves over his face and slumping back against the wall. “Same question?”

“Same answer,” Lancelot tells him, and he knows he should be trying to persuade Gwaine to head to the mess hall in time to get something to eat – or, failing that, persuade him to either return to his room or to visit Gaius, and send news of his location to Leon – but it is easier, for the moment, just to sit in a comfortable, companionable silence.

To his surprise, Gwaine does not break it.

X

“Do you think,” Lance says, when they’ve been sat there for a good while, “that it might be a good idea to find a slightly less unyielding place to sit?”

Gwaine laughs, stuttery and only half-amused. “Lance, do you really think this was my first choice of place to spend the night?” Lance doesn’t answer, although Gwaine’s eyes have adjusted well enough to the dark (because, yeah, he’s been here long enough for night to fall, and then a fair amount of time after that) to see a confused wrinkle on his forehead. “This was as far as I could get,” he explains, waving a hand at his all but useless leg. “And, before you start, I didn’t exactly walk this far out of choice.”

“I did not plan on saying anything,” Lance murmurs, then stands up with enviable ease and offers Gwaine a hand.

“Gonna need a little more help than that, mate.”

He has a moment of being very grateful that it’s not Percival he’s talking to, because he imagines he’d probably find himself flung over his shoulder like a rather fidgety sack of potatoes, and then Lance is sliding his arm around Gwaine’s waist and tugging Gwaine’s over his shoulder in order to haul him to his feet. “Stop whining,” Lance says, as Gwaine opens his mouth to do just that. “Do not make me regret choosing to sit with you all evening rather than following Merlin.”

“Sorry,” Gwaine mumbles as they make their ungainly way out of whatever room he’s been skulking in. “And thanks. Really do appreciate it.”

“I know you do. I would not be here if I thought otherwise.”

“Well, at least you’re honest,” Gwaine mutters. Lancelot chuckles in response.

“To Gaius’, then, if your leg is that bad?” Lance asks a few paces later, somewhat more sombrely.

Gwaine contemplates agreeing, if only because he really is in that much pain, but the thought of all those stairs kind of decides him against it. That and the fact that Merlin lives there, and Gwaine’s running away and hiding in some sort of study was really an attempt to get the hell away from him, and would be somewhat ruined by bumping into him. “Nah. My room is fine. I’ll go see him tomorrow.”

Lance pauses, then has to grab the arm Gwaine still has slung around his shoulder in order to keep him upright. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. There’s nothing he can do now that won’t be just as effective in the morning.” The _when Merlin isn’t there_ remains unsaid, but Lance glances at him in concern anyway. “Don’t worry so much, mate. I’m fine.”

“Gwaine,” Lance replies levelly. “Did I or did I not just find you crying in the dark a short while ago? I am not sure what definition of _fine_ you are working on, but that is not covered by the one used by most people.”

His tone borders on snide, so totally not Lancelot, but then he kind of has a point. “Okay, I’m really not fine. But unless Gaius has a secret desire to start a side trade in highly illegal love potions, there isn’t anything he can do to help.”

Lance sighs; Gwaine isn’t sure if it’s out of exasperation or compassionate sadness, but it’s heavy enough that his shoulders shake with it. “Aside from the fact that such methods are entirely unnecessary,” he says, tersely enough that Gwaine settles on exasperation, “you would not sink so low, Gwaine. You are better than that.”

His faith is touching enough that Gwaine doesn’t protest his first comment (honestly, has Lance forgotten what happened the last time he was utterly convinced that Merlin loved Gwaine just as much as Gwaine loves him?), or indeed say much of anything as they head towards his room. Contrary to popular opinion, he is capable of being silent sometimes, and he figures Lance probably deserves a complete absence of idiotic remarks more than most.

He makes it all the way to his room in silence, suppressing both the desire to swear violently when they have to climb a flight of stairs and the need to make some mildly vicious comment when Lance presses a few coppers into the hand of a pressing servant and asks them to _locate Sir Leon, please, and tell him the crisis is averted_.

Lance deposits him gently on his bed – despite Gwaine’s protests that he sleeps on the floor – then drops to his knees in a move that startles the crap out of Gwaine. “What are you-” he gets out, only for it to click that Lance is trying to unpick the knots in his bootlaces. “I’m not drunk, mate. I can get my own boots off.” Not, of course, that he ever even bothers to try if he’s drunk and sleeping alone, but he’s not going to tell Lance that.

Lance stands up and steps back, waving a hand that conveys _go ahead_ quite clearly.

Unfortunately, this makes his point far more effectively than arguing could ever have done; Gwaine manages to battle his way out of his left boot, but his right knee just won’t bend enough for him to cross his legs to get the second one off.

“If I was a worse man,” Lance says, kneeling again and knocking Gwaine’s hands from his laces, “I would wait for you to ask for my help.”

“Yeah, real freakin’ lucky, aren’t I?” Gwaine mutters, slightly less under his breath than he might like, given the way Lance frowns at him. “Sorry,” he continues, a little repentant. “Again, ‘preciate it.”

“Go to sleep, Gwaine,” Lance instructs, putting Gwaine’s boots neatly next to his chest of drawers and – not a word of a lie – patting him on the head. “I’ll tell Gareth to be quiet on his way up.”

It’s a testament to how crappy he feels that Gwaine obeys without protest. The last thing he’s really conscious of is Lance tucking a blanket up to his chin like he’s a child before slipping quietly from the room.

X

Merlin stops short as he exits Arthur’s room, midway through locking the door behind him. His hands drop to his sides, keys clattering to the ground and Montague looks up from his spot on the floor opposite him, torchlight burnishing his hair a rich auburn. He stands in a single, disturbingly lithe movement, smiles widely, and Merlin is pretty sure that if he’d managed to eat more than a mouthful of his dinner he’d be throwing up right now.

“How’s things, Merlin?” Montague asks, smile fading into confusion when Merlin doesn’t move. “You okay?”

_No_ , Merlin thinks. _Really, really no_. He picks up the keys, then fumbles with the lock, failing miserably at it, but it’s hardly his fault given how resolutely Gwaine’s words are echoing in his head, and really, it is just so typical of his life that the first person to come looking for him is the one he least wants to see.

_What do you know, Merlin?_ rings in his brain, just as Montague speaks again. “Can I help?” he says, stepping right into Merlin’s space. “Only it looks like you’re having trouble.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin mutters, though the shaking of his hands – _do you know that I fucked Montague the first night after I left here?_ – kind of denies it. The key turns, finally, and the click of the lock is deeply reassuring, not least because it means he can get out of there. “I have to go, though.”

“What’s the rush?” Montague asks, then shakes his head when Merlin offers nothing in reply, mostly because he can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t include the words _Gwaine_ and _whore_. “You didn’t eat tonight, Merlin, and I’m not the only one who noticed.” Montague looks at him, shoulders heavy with disappointment. There’s no anger or irritation to him, just the sense that Merlin has let him down, that he thinks Merlin could or should do better, and that is so, so much harder to deal with than rage.

“I already have a mother,” Merlin snaps, backing away rapidly. “Not to mention Gaius and Lancelot and Arthur and Gwen and Gw-” He stops himself there, because it isn’t true, is it? He doesn’t have Gwaine as anything, can barely even count him as a friend after how Merlin has treated him, and everyone has to know that, has to know that Gwaine can’t even stand to be in his presence right now. Merlin fights back a hiccupy sob – _do you know that I as good as sold myself to him?_ – and retreats further when Montague reaches towards him. “I don’t need coddling from them,” he says, sounding effortlessly angry. “I don’t need it from them, and I sure as hell don’t want it from you. Back off.”

“Right,” Montague says eventually, something close to a sneer on his face. “How foolish of me. I won’t bother you with my concern again.”

Merlin smiles, not at all happily or kindly or _anything_ other than furious. He can’t actually remember the last time he felt this mad, the last time he wanted to lash out at someone with words and blows rather than deal with them magically, subtly or otherwise. Before he can do more than curl his hands into fists, Montague has turned on his heel and stalked off; all Merlin can do is spit, “Good,” at his back before stomping away in the opposite direction.

Even if it is the wrong way.

X

Lancelot raps sharply on the door to Gwaine’s room then pushes it open, regardless of the fact that the only answer he gets is a brief pause in Gwaine and Gareth’s argument, the former yelling, “Piss off,” while the latter offers a somewhat more civil, “Hang on a minute, please.”

The yelling continues regardless of his presence – Lancelot is not completely certain they are aware he is there, actually – and he pieces together the content of the disagreement now that it is no longer partly muffled by two inches of oak.

“You’re a grown man, Gwaine,” Gareth says emphatically, as Lancelot takes up a comfortable and hopefully unobtrusive stance just inside of the door, most of the way closed behind him. “How long do you intend to sulk in here and ignore all your friends?”

Gwaine apparently decides that the best response to this question is to lie back down and hide under his blankets again, the words, “Fuck off to breakfast, ‘Reth,” barely decipherable.

“Oh, real bloody mature,” Gareth continues, sighing far louder than necessary and waving his hands dramatically, although for what audience Lancelot does not know. “Yep, you just set the perfect example, don’t you? Who wouldn’t want their sons to grow up like you?” Lancelot steps forward, preparing to intervene – if Gwaine’s injury was bothering him so much that he could barely even walk last night, it is unlikely he will be faring any better this morning, and Gareth’s anger cannot be helping him – but Gareth softens somehow, dragging a hand through his hair before dropping into one of the seats by the fire.

“Gwaine,” he says, sounding far older than he is. “Gwaine, these guys are your brothers, just as much as me and Bertram. They’re worried about you. Everyone is worried about you.”

Gwaine’s silence seems a remarkably uncommunicative one to Lancelot, but apparently Gareth reads something in it that he does not. “Yeah, I know you don’t want us to be. You’ve made that obvious, what with how you’ve spent your life running away from anyone who might possibly care for you. But this is your home, Gwaine. They do care, and you care about them, and if you really don’t want them to worry you’ll stop hiding, you’ll stop raging at them for whatever mistake they made that upset you so much and you’ll try sort things out with whoever it is you’re still head-over-heels in love with.”

Lancelot sucks in a breath, surprised and deeply concerned, and this time it is he who knows something Gareth does not, namely that however well Gareth may have presented his case prior to mentioning Merlin, that last suggestion was a deeply unwise thing to say. Certainly, it is one Lancelot has wanted to make himself, one he has skirted carefully around, but clearly Gareth has no idea of the need to take things slowly when it comes to Gwaine and his emotions.

“Get out,” Gwaine says, pulling his head far enough off his pillow to be understood, and the only thing in his voice is tiredness, complete and utter exhaustion, and not even an ounce of anger. “Go get something to eat, Gareth. And find some other way to spend the afternoon.”

“Alright,” Gareth sighs, standing again. “Sorry, Gwaine.”

That, Lancelot decides, is his cue to leave; his intervention is clearly not required, and he would rather not have Gwaine know that he has been deliberately listening to them. He opens the door only as far as he needs to in order to slip through it, then closes it carefully after him. Only then does he knock a second time, slightly more insistently.

Gareth emerges a minute later, with a smile and a soft apology for making Lancelot wait, then sets off immediately in the direction of the mess hall. Lancelot allows him to walk on without him, and then reopens the door to Gwaine’s room, choosing not to wait for an invitation he is not going to be offered.

Sure enough, his first action on entering is to duck, allowing the pillow that was very recently under Gwaine’s head to sail straight over his own and into the corridor.

“Good morning, Gwaine,” he says. “I have to say, I preferred you when you were overly grateful yesterday to you throwing things at me.” Still, he turns and picks up Gwaine’s pillow for him, if only because he is expecting Gwaine to give him an excuse to throw it back at him.

“Thought you were ‘Reth, coming back to nag some more,” Gwaine answers, propping himself up against the headboard of his bed. “Sorry,” he adds a moment later, then, when Lancelot remains silent, “you want something, Lance?”

“I was just wondering how you were, after yesterday, and whether you wanted assistance in making your way to see Gaius.” Mostly, Lancelot just wants to remind Gwaine that he said he was going to seek Gaius’ attention for his knee, but if anything is going to make Gwaine refuse to do something he ought to, it is implying that he is not likely to do it without prompting.

Gwaine frowns a little bit, then sighs. “I’ll manage, thanks. Do you want to catch up with Gareth before he comes back?”

That is a dismissal if ever Lancelot heard one, and, really, Gwaine is an adult, however little he acts like it. Lancelot can hardly drag him to breakfast, or force him to seek medical assistance if he decides he does not want it.

Of course, there is no harm in encouraging Gareth to go on without him in order to drop in on Gaius and ask him to check on Gwaine if the fool has not made his way there himself by lunchtime.

X

“Absolutely not,” Merlin hears Gaius state in a way that leaves absolutely no room for argument. He doesn’t know what led up to such adamant refusal, given how completely incapable of dressing quietly he is, and he’s in too much of a rush to stick around to find out now. His stomach kept him up half the night growling, and then, when he finally slept, he didn’t wake up again, not until now, when he’s going to have to run to the kitchen to get Arthur his breakfast in order to race down to the mess hall to get his own.

Except, of course, when he stumbles down the steps from his bedroom, untied shoelaces trailing behind him, Lancelot is standing there, frowning as Gaius tells him in no uncertain terms that if Gwaine needs help, he can come by in person like everyone has to do.

Merlin pauses, because how can he not, and how exactly is he supposed to worry about breakfast, Arthur’s or his own, when Gwaine is either unwilling or incapable of making his way down to Gaius for help and Gaius is refusing to go to him? “What’s up with Gwaine?” he asks, making Lance jump and Gaius do his frown-y eyebrow thing (all these years, and it still has Merlin wanting to shake in his boots).

“You’re late, Merlin,” Gaius answers, in a not even slightly subtle attempt to get him out of there without having to explain, and Merlin wonders if he even knew he was still in his room when he made his refusal, or if he thought Merlin was long gone, as he technically should have been.

“Arthur’s used to it. What’s wrong with Gwaine?” Gaius does his best _I don’t approve_ face, while Lancelot just looks concerned (but then when doesn’t he, lately?). “Look,” Merlin tells the pair of them. “I’m not going anywhere until I know, so either you can tell me why Gwaine needs help or you can have your conversation in front of me.” When this gets nothing but silence, Merlin offers a prompt. “Gaius, I think you were just about to tell Lancelot why you won’t help Gwaine.”

“His knee is bothering him,” Lance answers, apparently deciding it’s the easiest option. “He walked slightly further than he intended to last night.”

Even though it’s Lancelot, and Merlin doesn’t know anyone else who could say that sentence without a drop of blame – disapproval, yes, but nothing as strong as accusation – he still feels guilt swirling inside him. “Oh,” he says, and yep, it’s definitely noticeable. “Is he okay?”

“I believe so, but I am hardly an expert in the matter, hence my presence here.” Lance looks to Gaius expectantly, and apparently Merlin is getting both an answer to his question and to witness this conversation for himself. Pity he doesn’t have someone rushing to bring him breakfast as well, but then some things are too much to ask for.

“If Gwaine wants help, he can come here himself, just like everyone else,” Gaius states plainly. “I am not required to go to him unless he requests it, and had he requested it I imagine you would have said so in the first place.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, because even though Gaius isn’t exactly well acquainted with Gwaine (mostly because Gwaine never wanted to be in his presence for longer than a few minutes at a time, at least not since Merlin started sleeping with him), he has to know he never asks for help unless he absolutely has to.

“Gaius,” he protests, with almost no hope of success, but Lancelot cuts in before he can actually manage anything further.

“I am not asking you to go there immediately,” he says. “I understand that you are a busy man, Gaius, and that you have no desire to chase down every injured person in the castle, nor are you obliged to do so. But if Gwaine has not made his way down here before lunchtime, I was hoping you could see him.”

Gaius glances from Lance (concern and sorrow and almost any emotion that could conceivably be said to lie between the two) to Merlin (hope, he is sure, absolute and desperate and, mostly likely, futile), and Merlin is sure another refusal is coming. He musters his courage, because Gaius wouldn’t refuse to treat anyone, not even Uther who would see him burn without a second thought or a drop of remorse for keeping Merlin’s secret, and Merlin knows it’s because of him that he won’t go to Gwaine. And if he has to explain every single way he has hurt Gwaine over their months together and apart, if he has to share every little, loathsome detail with the man who may as well be his father (and with one of his best friends, since Lance is here and unlikely to leave until he gets what he wants) in order to get Gwaine help, then he’s bloody well going to do so, isn’t he, uncomfortable as he is with the idea.

“It’s not Gwaine’s fault,” he says, the words coming out jumbled in his rush to speak them, get them out and over and done with. “He can’t be blamed for anything, and… Even this, his leg, is my fault, isn’t it?”

Lancelot doesn’t say anything, which is about as close as his honour will let him get to an outright lie. A denial isn’t necessary, though, and wouldn’t be at all convincing, because Merlin knows damn well he’s right.

“It is,” he repeats adamantly. “It’s- there’s this spell, to bring people to you, not like _poof_ and they’re there, but walking. And it’s so easy, it was so easy, just to use it whenever I needed help, and then last night there was…” He shudders, feels his hands ball into fists, but if Gaius is this angry at Gwaine for how messily things ended between him and Merlin, he really isn’t going to deal well with knowledge of yesterday’s argument with Roger, even if Merlin actually wanted to explain it, which he doesn’t. “Well, suffice to say, I needed help, and I didn’t even realise I’d done it until Gwaine was yelling at me for it. It was just instinct, my magic doing what it wants to, but it’s my fault that Gwaine needs help now.”

Gaius’ eyebrow seems to be torn between dropping into a frown (again) and rising even closer to his hairline, while a glance at Lancelot shows his expression to be one of panic, pure and – as with all things Lancelot – unadulterated. “I didn’t mean to,” Merlin continues, stumbling and urgent, because of course Lance would worry about him hurting someone with his magic, after what Merlin nearly did to him. He can’t even blame Lance for worrying, because what he did was monstrous and unforgivable, even if he didn’t mean to do that either. “I swear, I wouldn’t. I’d never deliberately hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it, _never_. I promise it wasn’t on purpose.”

“I know,” Lance says, his face smoothing from its mess of worry, like slapping a bandage over a gaping wound. “Calm down, Merlin, we know.”

Merlin smiles, a little unsteadily, surprised and amazed, as he so often is, but how very lucky he is to have a friend like Lance, that he still treats him with the same easy kindness as he always has, no matter how Merlin has wronged him. “Yeah,” he says softly, a little bit sadly. “I’m sorry.”

“Just don’t do it again, my boy,” Gaius says gruffly, like that settles the matter, like it’s really so easy and Merlin can just decide to be calm and unemotional and entirely in control. But he can’t argue, not when he doesn’t stand a chance of winning, and he really doesn’t want to make Lancelot look that concerned again.

That topic of conversation done with, they seem to be at something of an impasse: Lance isn’t going to go anywhere without an assurance that Gwaine will receive help, Gaius refuses to give him one, and Merlin is far too involved in this to miss whatever the conclusion is going to be.

“I will make a deal with you, Sir Lancelot,” Gaius says eventually, with visible reluctance. “If Gwaine has not made his way here for treatment by mid-afternoon, I will send Merlin up with the supplies necessary to see to him.”

“Um,” Merlin begins, and then stops himself. He is, as Gaius is currently explaining, perfectly competent (hardly a complimentary description of his skills as a physician’s apprentice, but then it’s not like it’s a full time occupation for him), and it is a about as good a reason to go see Gwaine as Merlin could ask for; Gwaine probably isn’t particularly inclined to see him at the moment, but if Merlin’s treating his leg he can’t exactly complain.

Concern is seeping through the cracks in Lance’s calm facade again. “Are you okay with this, Merlin?” he asks, and then turns his gaze back to Gaius when Merlin nods. “Very well. Thank you, Gaius. Merlin, I will see you at training.”

“Breakfast,” Merlin corrects. “I’ll be late, though; I still need to get Arthur his. Can you save me a plate, please?”

“For as long as I can,” Lancelot promises, voice full of approving undertones that Merlin knows Gaius is going to question as soon as he gets the chance.

Thankfully, Gaius is more fond of punctuality than he is of lecturing Merlin; he waves Merlin out of the room after Lancelot with a frown and nothing more than a firm, “You’re late, Merlin. We can talk about this later.”

On the list of conversations Merlin would really rather not have, this one is so very close to the top.

Then again, most things are, lately.

X

Gwaine, much to his displeasure, has never been a particularly heavy sleeper. Sure, he can doze for a ridiculously long time if he’s somewhere comfortable enough (and in a fair few places most would be reluctant to shut their eyes in), and he’s mastered the art of dropping off almost as soon as he closes his eyes, but most of the time the slightest noise is enough to wake him. A side effect of sleeping rough and not having anyone to watch his back, where the difference between waking quickly and not quite waking quickly enough could leave him robbed blind (of what little he had to steal, at any rate) or worse, but it’s a far harder habit to break than he’d have expected it to be.

So yeah, he drifts easily back into dreamland when Gareth goes to breakfast, not that his dreams are anything he particularly wants to be having. None of them are, lately, when the pictures playing on his eyelids are all the things he wishes he didn’t wish for during the day, but it’s not like he can complain, not when some of the things he’s seen are enough to give any sensible person nightmares. Either way, he’s grateful each time a thump of footsteps in the hall launches him in wakefulness, even if it doesn’t last long before a lack of anything more interesting to do pushes him back into drowsing.

He doesn’t wake fully, not until lunchtime, when Lance taps gently on the door then pushes it open, once against without waiting for a response; they’re definitely rubbing off on him, he and Merlin and everyone else in the city with a complete absence of manners. Any other time, he’d probably think it was for the best, but when it’s his privacy being invaded, Gwaine is a little less generous. Of course, Gwaine forgives him instantly when Lance closes the door softly behind him and places a plate on the table by Gwaine’s bed, but still, it’d be nice for someone to wait for him to let them in.

It takes a moment for Gwaine to work out what is weird about Lance’s appearance. “Where’s your shadow?” he asks, as Lance sits on Gwaine’s least comfortable chair (and he’s the only person who ever sits on it, too, which says a lot).

“I escaped,” Lance answers quietly. “Ah, I mean, your brother was still eating when I left the hall, and then Leon is going to help him with his inability to find his way around the city. I thought you might appreciate a break, after your argument this morning.”

Gwaine laughs; much as he loves Lance, he’s sure his motives weren’t quite that selfless. “And you wanting to escape had nothing to do with it, of course.”

“That was not quite how I meant it,” Lance argues, even more quietly. “Gareth is a very pleasant young man.”

“Please, he’s a pest. And, you want my advice? Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Lance shudders, apparently perfectly capable of picturing ‘Reth’s reaction to hearing Lance call him pleasant. “Eat your lunch,” he says, rather than going for further attempts to extricate his foot from his mouth.

“You could try being a little less noble,” Gwaine suggests, grinning as he slides the plate onto his lap and tucks in (lying around doing nothing is seriously hungry work). “He’d probably give you a break if he thought you were just as fallible as the rest of us.”

“Do you really think that is a good idea, Gwaine?” Lance says, soft and sorrowful. “Do you think anyone would be happier if I acted on my every impulse, as you do, rather than trying to do what is right?”

_You might be_ , Gwaine thinks, but saying it is both pointless (Lance isn’t going to listen, because he never does) and mean, when Lance sounds so utterly heartbroken, and quite how they’ve managed to jump from Gareth’s bout of stalking (harmless though it might be, it’s still definitely stalking) to Lance’s non-existent love life, Gwaine doesn’t know. “It just me that thinks our lives would be much easier if he was an arsehole? If he wasn’t such a good guy, we could just kill him and be done with it.”

“I know Gareth can be persistent, but I hardly think it necessary to kill him.” Lance’s tone is so haughty (and his sense of humour usually so lacking) that it takes Gwaine a minute to realise he’s joking. Actually, it takes until Lance grins at him for it to sink in, but then most of his mind is on the first meal he’s had since this time yesterday. “That said, it might not be a good idea to make jokes about regicide outside the confines of your room. I am not sure other people would find it funny.”

“Yeah, because you do,” Gwaine mumbles, because it’s Lance and he rarely sees the humour in Gwaine’s remarks, even when it comes to bitching about Arthur. “And no one’s dumb enough to think I’d do something about it, anyway. Hell, at this point, it’s not like doing away with Arthur would do either of us any good.”

Lance doesn’t answer, and doesn’t answer, and doesn’t answer, sitting silently for so long that Gwaine thinks the conversation is dead and gone, as lost as both their hopes. He finishes his meal, scrapes his plate so thoroughly that he thinks he eats the odd wood chip, then dumps the plate on his table again, and still Lance is quiet.

Too quiet, actually.

And he’s wearing his thinking face.

_Bollocks._

“What?” Gwaine demands, almost exactly the same moment as Lance opens his mouth.

“Gwaine,” he says. “Gwaine, Merlin- he… They are not the same, your situation with Merlin and things between… Between Guinevere and I.”

Gwaine would laugh, because isn’t that something he knows so well? Gwen has real feelings for Lance, feelings they all pretend she does not, a filthy secret made no less real for the fact that no one talks about it, but to Merlin, Gwaine has never been anything more than a distraction. Lance looks so painfully guilty for even mentioning it (well, he’s never liked upsetting people, and everyone knows how awful Lance feels about the Gwen stuff, even if he’s utterly blameless) so Gwaine just reaches out to pat his knee, the only – and entirely useless – comfort he can offer him.

“So, other than our deep and every-intensifying misery, how are things elsewhere in the castle?” Gwaine asks, because he’s had about all he can take of their collected woe for today, and he’s falling seriously behind on gossip thanks to his temporary confinement to his room.

X

Hitting Gwaine across the head is wrong, Lancelot reminds himself. It is not proper to hit those who cannot defend themselves, and Gwaine currently cannot.

Of course, Gwaine has taken enough blows to the head in the time Lancelot has known him to conclusively prove that no, it is not actually possible to knock sense into a person.

And yes, it really would be bad to try it.

He is tired, though, of having conversations like this with Gwaine, whose deafness can only be deliberate, who is not listening because he does not want to listen, and Lancelot has had more than enough of being the go-between in Gwaine and Merlin’s relationship.

“Merlin is,” he starts, and then pauses, because things ended so well the last time he pulled this stunt. Gwaine does not have magic though, has little reason to be angry when this has to be something that will make him happy, and Gwaine is not going to be able to chase Lancelot down on the off chance that he does lose his temper. There is nothing to lose in telling this, and everything to gain. “He fell apart when you left,” Lancelot continues, talking quicker than usual in order to say as much as he can before Gwaine pulls himself together enough to interrupt. “He stopped eating, he was barely sleeping, and you were the only thing he thought about.”

“Are you trying to make me feel guilty?” Gwaine demands. “Don’t you think I feel bad enough about this already?”

“I do not want to make you feel bad, Gwaine. If anything, I am trying to make you feel better.”

Gwaine fidgets in a way that suggests he wants very much to stand up and start shouting; Lancelot considers himself lucky that he cannot do the former and chooses not to do the latter. “Really not working, mate,” he says.

“Well, no. I have not got to the part that will, yet,” Lancelot replies, a little more snappishly than Gwaine possibly deserves. “Gwaine, Merlin is-”

“Merlin is what?” Merlin asks, walking into Gwaine’s room without knocking, eyes glowing faintly and hands full of medical supplies, a stick tucked under his arm.

X

_Merlin is incapable of knowing where he is not welcome_ , Gwaine thinks. _Merlin is unwilling to allow him to find anything close to peace or contentment. Merlin is a selfish git and, gods help him, the only person Gwaine will ever truly love._

“Here,” Lancelot finishes, just a tad unnecessarily. “Merlin is here, and perfectly capable of telling you himself.”

Gwaine drags his palms over his face, contemplates holding them over his ears until everyone just leaves him alone. But his kid brother is too mature to pull shit like that, so Gwaine has to try not to be that ridiculous himself, even if he wants little more than that.

“Telling him what?” Merlin asks.

Lance sighs, standing. “Everything,” he answers, making his way to the door. “I will leave the two of you to talk.”

“Thank you,” Merlin murmurs, moving Gwaine’s empty plate and placing his bag on the table, just as Gwaine says, “No!”

“No?” Because Lance suddenly has no idea what the word means, of course, and Gwaine is just going to have to make it plain as anything, no room for confusion or mistake.

“No,” he repeats. “Whatever the fuck this is, you’ve clearly planned it, but I’m telling you, Lancelot, no. If you leave me with Merlin, not only will I follow you out of here and to hell with how messed up my leg is, but I will personally ensure my brother follows you every single hour of every single day until one or both of you dies.”

Clearly, this is a difficult decision for Lance to make, since he hovers vacantly, glancing between Merlin and Gwaine for quite some time, his frown deepening with each moment his eyes rest on Gwaine. “I am sorry, Merlin,” he says eventually, returning to his hideous chair and resting his elbows on his knees, head hanging low.

Merlin looks hurt, so horribly, horribly hurt, and Gwaine feels a stab of that vicious, violent triumph, that _you deserve nothing less after how you’ve treated me_ delight, swamped almost immediately by bitter regret. He won’t take it back, though, because he isn’t ready to be alone with Merlin just yet, never mind alone with him in his bedroom, with him stuck in his bed thanks to his blasted knee. It can’t possibly end well, can’t possibly result in anything that won’t make everything Gwaine feels at the moment fifty times worse, so Lancelot is staying, and Merlin can just deal with it.

“Fine,” Merlin says, looking at Lancelot before snapping his gaze back to Gwaine. “Fine, if that’s how you want it. Take your trousers off.”

“Take my _what_ off?!”

“Lancelot,” Merlin says, with what might on a far less nice person be considered a sneer as he says the name, “asked Gaius to look at your injury. Gaius sent me. Here I am. Take your trousers off.”

Gwaine stares, momentarily baffled and then betrayed; does Lancelot really not trust him to look after himself? How old does he think he is, four? Five? Gwaine has been looking out for himself for years, in the absence of having anyone else to do it for him, and that might have changed but he still hasn’t quite accepted it yet. “Right then,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Thanks, Lance. Really fucking appreciate this, mate.” And then, to Merlin, “Turn around.”

Surprise paints itself across Merlin’s face, then hurt ( _again_ ), and finally a sulky stubbornness. “Really, Gwaine, anything you’ve got I’ve seen already.”

“Yeah, and you lost the right to see it months ago. Turn around, or fuck off.” Merlin isn’t the only one who can be stubborn, after all, and while he might have drawn the first line in the sand Gwaine is drawing this one. He is going to be friends with Merlin again, maybe not just yet and maybe not as close as before they began and ended, but he is, and showing him his cock is not the way to go.

Merlin stares, seemingly waiting for Gwaine to provide some sign that he’s joking, that he doesn’t mean what he said, but he isn’t getting one. Gwaine isn’t joking, much as he wishes he was; this is the way things are now. Eventually, Merlin seems to register this fact, turning his back on Gwaine with a huffy sigh. A glance at Lance shows that he’s staring quite fixedly at the floor, not that he hasn’t seen Gwaine naked before as well, a good while ago and largely against his will.

With some wriggling, Gwaine manages to get out of his soft, comfortable sleep trousers (something he’s had to invest in since Gareth came back with him and he started sharing his room in a context where naked wasn’t the appropriate way to be), supporting all his weight on his left foot while he pulls them down over his hips. He’s capable of kicking the left leg off completely, but his right knee has frozen up again while he’s been resting it and even if it hadn’t Gwaine doesn’t think he could have handled the pain long enough to fidget out of them; his knee is exposed, and that’s good enough.

Unfortunately, so is everything else, so Gwaine settles a pillow in his lap – the same one he threw at Lancelot that morning, he thinks, and wonders vaguely if he’ll be given the excuse to do it again later – and attempts to act like he isn’t half naked in front of his ex-lover and one of their closest friends. “I’m decent,” he announces.

“First time for everything,” Merlin mutters, facing him again with a grin that falls flat when Gwaine doesn’t answer it in kind. “Okay, then. No more joking.” He walks around the bed and stands beside Gwaine, just looking at the bruised, swollen mess of his knee. “Shit, Gwaine. If I’d known it was that bad I’d’ve come this morning.”

“And done what?” Gwaine asks. “Stood and stared? That certainly seems to be all you’re doing now.”

Merlin nods, and, without warning, begins prodding at his knee, probably in a way that’s supposed to be gentle but it still bloody hurts. Then again, Merlin follows up the prodding by resting his palm flat across the area he’s just prodded and sliding his other hand under Gwaine’s shin, holding reasonably tightly and forcing Gwaine’s knee to bend, and that hurts a whole fucking lot more, so, really, it’s all relative.

“Fuck!” Gwaine damn near screeches, then flings Merlin’s hand away from him. “Damnit, Merlin, did you have to do that?”

“Yes, actually,” Merlin answers, “I can hardly treat you if I don’t know how bad the damage is, can I?”

Gwaine huffs at him, but it’s not like he can disagree, and even he isn’t enough of a fool not to realise how much his leg needs treating, or at the very least how much he needs something to make the pain of it manageable. He doesn’t want to be stuck like this forever, and he’s seen people in the past who have suffered similar injuries and not given them time to heal properly, permanently crippled by what should have been nothing, young men stuck walking with a stick if they can walk at all, and Gwaine will not let that be him. “Fine,” he says, settling his hands back on the pillow in his lap and making a conscious effort not to look at Merlin. “Get on with it, then.”

Merlin does, but his hold on Gwaine is lighter, more cautious, and he flinches every time Gwaine so much as breathes, let alone the moments when he can’t hide his wince. He doesn’t say anything, though; none of them do, and it is probably one of the most awkward silences Gwaine has ever encountered (and, from a man who finds all silences deeply unsettling, that’s really saying something).

Merlin’s fingers skitter up over his knee, probing gently, then carry on, far higher up his thigh than can be necessary, and if Gwaine wasn’t so determined to pretend this isn’t happening (a feat that gets somewhat harder to manage with every second of Merlin’s steadily warming fingertips on his skin), he’d say something, or at the very least clear his throat. Before he can scrape together the resolve to do so, Merlin’s hands retreat again, moving down the sides of his thigh to his knee again, curling around it so that his fingertips rest on the soft, vulnerable skin on the underside of Gwaine’s knee whilst the heels of his hands almost meet above it, and he can’t remember Merlin’s hands against his skin ever feeling as warm as this. No, Merlin has cold hands, and his feet have always sat like ice against Gwaine’s legs while they sleep together, and yet today they are fire, massaging lightly, not just pleasantly warm but hot, painful, and actually fucking burning him.

Gwaine doesn’t flinch, still doesn’t even look at him, because it’s all in his mind, it has to be. He’s imagining it, because Merlin wouldn’t hurt him physically, no matter how much his occasional disregard for Gwaine’s feelings might damage him in a less literal way. Not ever, and particularly not when he’s trying to help him.

At that moment, four things happen almost at once.

Merlin breathes in sharply, loudly, not quite a gasp but close to it.

Lance jumps to his feet, a desperate horror on his face that barely lessens when he moves into Merlin’s line of sight.

The heat becomes unbearable, and Gwaine’s knee throbs once, rich and strange and excruciating in about a dozen different ways, sending a spasm of contracting muscles all the way from his toes to his hip and then gone, forgotten as soon as it passes in the wake of an equally extreme wave that can only be described as _hungry_ , and

Gwaine groans, clamping down on the pillow in his lap as he looks to Merlin, sees the gold blaze of his eyes swimming back at him through the fog of his sudden attack of lust, and only then does he realise that sometimes, Merlin’s efforts to help are just a little bit much.

Merlin stares back at him, his eyes leeching back to blue, fixed, unblinking, both terrified and terrifying, and far too able to sweep Gwaine away with little more than a glance, whether or not he means to. Even so, even knowing that this is just a peculiar reaction to Merlin’s magic flooding through him, Gwaine has to resist the urge to reach out to him, drag him close and bring back the memories of everything that they used to be, and to hell with all their problems and the fact that Merlin doesn’t sodding love him and poor Lancelot standing only feet away from them.

Lancelot, bless his soul, has a presence of mind that Gwaine lacks right now (and, from the look of things, Merlin isn’t faring a whole lot better than him, although when Gwaine’s eyes stray against his will to below Merlin’s waist, he can see that Merlin isn’t in the same awkward, uncomfortable situation he is); he steps forward, pointedly not looking at Gwaine, and closes his hand upon Merlin’s upper arm, dragging him away from Gwaine and out of the room.

Merlin doesn’t take his eyes from Gwaine the whole way.

X

Lancelot shoves Merlin into the hallway and shuts the door behind them with unnecessary noise, then pushes Merlin against the wall, and finally, finally, Merlin finds himself able to blink.

“What, Merlin?” Lance asks. “What was that?”

Merlin swallows, staring at the floor like it’ll tell him what he needs to know, and, really, it was bad enough that Lance was witness to what just happened between he and Gwaine. Does he really have to ask questions about it? For that matter, why on earth would he want to?

Except, apparently, he does want to, because when Merlin forces his eyes back up to meet his, Lancelot is gazing back at him dispassionately, not even close to the empathy he is usually so full of. “Um,” Merlin says, hesitatingly and with extreme reluctance. “I don’t know. That… doesn’t usually happen. It’s not-”

“Not _that_ ,” Lancelot cuts in harshly, looking more than a little unsettled. “I am choosing to pretend that never happened, and I would like it very much if you would allow me to do so. I do not want to know about…” He wrinkles his nose rather than finishing his sentence, which, quite frankly, Merlin thinks is probably for the best. “Before that.”

Merlin feels the shock of Gwaine looking at him like that again wear off, slowly overtaken by the realisation of what Lancelot means. “I healed him?” he tries, well aware that it sounds like a question, but even if he knows what has Lancelot looking so worried he still doesn’t know why. Sure, it wasn’t exactly what he planned on doing when he came to see Gwaine, but it wasn’t a bad thing to do. If anything, it was good, a way of reversing some of the harm he’s done, even if it was accidental.

“Precisely,” Lancelot answers. “So tell me, Merlin, are you an idiot or are you out of control?”

X

Merlin’s expression shows quite clearly how uncalled for he thinks that question is, and perhaps it is. Perhaps Lancelot is wrong to treat him so harshly, but then they – he and Arthur – have made a lot of effort to keep from Merlin how severe this situation is, how great the risk of Merlin never regaining control of his magic again is. It was necessary, they decided, lest Merlin’s panic at the idea only increase the risk, but it does make it very hard for Lancelot to explain now the reasons behind his seemingly extreme reaction.

“I don’t understand,” Merlin says mulishly, unhappily; Lancelot knows full well that he would rather be on the other side of Gwaine’s door, and he is not entirely certain that Gwaine does not wish the same. A few hours ago, he would have been quite happy to leave them to work things out between themselves, even if he is not entirely sure that allowing what he has just witnessed to proceed as it looked likely to would not have been a morally dubious thing to do, but now… Now he is scared, both for Merlin and – much as he wishes otherwise, because this is hardly Merlin’s fault, and he does not deserve Lancelot’s fear – of him, and perhaps now it is time that Merlin understands everything, even if Lancelot still hopes his healing Gwaine’s leg was foolishly deliberate.

“You know exactly what Gwaine is like,” Lancelot states; he may as well start this explanation in a place that will make sense to Merlin, and the longer it takes, the longer it is before he has to make a suggestion he suspects will not go down well, because he has never been able to put all that much stock into hope.

“Gwaine is dramatic, and you know how much of a fuss he made about his knee,” he continues. “Half the castle has seen us practically carrying him around, and they will have told half the city. The king battling one of his knights like that is prime fodder for gossip. So either you healed him deliberately, risking exposure of yourself and Gwaine at the very least and quite clearly demonstrating how big a fool you are, or you did it accidentally, in which case…” Lancelot stops, because he does not have the heart to tell Merlin that everyone around him is potentially in great danger. He has to know, though, for everyone’s sake, and Lancelot has never in the past wished for Merlin to be a moron but he is now. “Which is it?”

“I’m not stupid,” Merlin mutters, which is answer enough, although the sullenness with which he speaks suggests that the reason behind consciously healing Gwaine being unwise had not occurred to him before Lancelot stated it. “It wasn’t entirely intentional,” he adds, after a long moment. “I wanted to help him. The healing just happened.”

“Just happened?” Lancelot finds himself echoing, as the last vestiges of his hope for things not being as dire as he had worried they were disappear. “Oh, Merlin. You really do not like things to be simple, do you?”

Merlin ducks his head, so tired and unhappy that Lancelot cannot help but hug him. “I am sorry, Merlin,” he says softly, then pulls back; this needs to be said, before he allows himself to change his mind. “You need to stay away from Gwaine.”

Merlin looks back at him rather than the floor, gaping slightly. “I thought you wanted us to fix things. Earlier you told me to tell him everything.”

Lancelot nods slowly, and wonders how to explain to Merlin his abrupt change of heart. He still wishes for Merlin and Gwaine to be happy, but they may have to be put on hold for a while, until Merlin recovers control of his magic. And Merlin will recover control of his magic, because the alternative is unthinkable. “I know, Merlin. And I am sorry, but unless you have evidence that your magic” – he hisses the word under his breath, aware that while the corridor appears empty it does not mean discussing sorcery at an audible level is a good idea – “is as unpredictable around others as it is around him, then you need to keep your distance until you regain control.”

He gives Merlin a moment to absorb this, then asks, “Which is it?”

X

Merlin blinks, then closes his eyes fully, thinking. He wants really quite desperately to find an occasion where his magic has sparked out that doesn’t relate to Gwaine, but he can’t.

He can’t.

When it comes to Gwaine, his magic does its own thing.

Lancelot is right. He needs to stay away.

X

“I think someone’s following me,” Gareth says, shutting the door behind him, then follows it up immediately with, “Gods, Gwaine, why the hell is the window open?”

Gwaine turns to look at him, leaning his back against the wall beside the open window, breathing in air that doesn’t smell of sweat and dirt and him. “Really,” ‘Reth continues, crossing the room and pulling the window shut. “You’re practically a child, what would you do without someone to look after you? Go back to bed, you idiot, before you mess your knee up even – no, hang on, how did you even get over there?”

Gwaine shoves away from the wall and walks, without a trace of a limp, to a chair, ignoring Gareth as he closes the window and continues fussing around him. “Leg’s fine, kid,” he says, sitting down and staring at the fire, holding his hands up because, yeah, he might have been a little chilly standing in the cold air. “It got fixed.”

“Whuh?” ‘Reth asks, ever eloquent. After a minute, though, Gareth manages to work it out; although Bertram got the lion’s share of the brains in their family, neither of them are complete idiots. “Did… Merlin fixed it? Can he do that?”

“Apparently, yeah,” Gwaine says. “Surprised us, too.”

“Us? People saw? Why couldn’t he do it when I was around?”

“Who do you think is following you?” he asks instead of answering; absolutely the only thing he can feel right now is relief that his brother wasn’t about to see Merlin healing him. It was bad enough that Lance was there, but at least he had the good manners to pretend he hadn’t noticed the look Gwaine was giving Merlin when the magic was done, not to mention the intelligence to drag Merlin out of there before they fell on each other like ravenous animals, regardless of the fact that they had an audience. Because in the moment, Gwaine wouldn’t particularly have cared if the whole kingdom had been standing witness; Merlin could have had him, any which way he wanted, to hell with all Gwaine’s reasons for saying _no_ and Lance being within touching distance of the pair of them and the completely unethical use of Merlin’s magic. Hell, the only real success of the day is that Gwaine managed to wait until they left the room before getting himself off.

Gareth looks at him long enough that Gwaine knows he’s not happy about his completely shirking the subject, but at the same time he knows better than to ask again; he learnt pretty damn quickly that pushing Gwaine about Merlin’s magic wasn’t smart. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s… I mean, I might just be imagining it.”

_Yeah_ , Gwaine thinks, _or you might not_. He’s not going to say it, though, because Gareth is just a child still, and he doesn’t want to worry him any more than he already is. “Probably,” he agrees. “Wouldn’t think too much about it, bro.”

Particularly since Gwaine is going to mention it to Lance or Montague, whoever stops by to see him next. He’s not leaving his room any time soon, because he can’t act injured worth a damn and some smart git might put the pieces together between Merlin going into his room with medical kit and him leaving no longer injured; however much Gwaine wants to keep an eye on Gareth, he’s not doing it at the cost of Merlin’s safety, not when he’s got other people he can ask to look out for him.

X

Merlin finds avoiding Gwaine predictably difficult, but at the same time unbelievably easy.

It’s hard because… Well, it’s not like it needs saying, is it? Ever since Arthur let on that he’d sent Lancelot and Montague to fetch Gwaine, seeing him has been pretty much the only thing Merlin can think of.

He missed Gwaine like he would have missed the floor underneath him if it suddenly disappeared, if the sun had forgotten to rise one morning, if… Well, numerous other disgustingly sappy analogies, and the only upside is that he’s thinking rather than saying them. And if Gwaine being away was painful, then fighting the urge to seek him out every single minute of every single day is about the most unpleasant thing he can think of.

At the same time, though, he doesn’t think Gwaine has left his room since Merlin was there; finding him won’t take any effort, but he isn’t bumping into him constantly, and as long as Merlin can resist the desire to lock himself in Gwaine’s room he’s not going to let his magic mess things up.

And so far, he’s only found himself walking down the corridor towards Gwaine’s room eight times, has only reached it five times, only put his hand on the handle three times, only used his magic to unlock it once.

He hasn’t gone in, yet, so day one of staying away from Gwaine can probably be counted as a success.

In fact, it isn’t until the fourth day when Arthur presents them all with an order that is going to make steering clear of Gwaine pretty damn difficult.

X

“Dismissed,” Arthur states, loudly enough that Lancelot can hear him, over in his corner with Merlin and Gareth; he sheathes his sword and sighs a long, heavy sigh of relief.

“You are doing well,” he says to Gareth, trying to sound encouraging without being overly interested. “Keep working on that last manoeuvre, please.”

The boy is smart enough to know what a goodbye sounds like, even when it does not include the actual word. “Right,” he answers, grinning. “Thanks, Sir Lancelot. I’ll see you at lunch.” He ambles off, joining Percival, Elyan and Leon on their way out (Gwaine might not be talking to them, but he has still encouraged Gareth to be friendly with them; whatever his many faults are, he certainly seems to have his brother’s best interests at heart), leaving Lancelot with Merlin.

“What is it this time, Lance?” Merlin asks, sounding particularly glum. “I promise, I’ve not seen Gwaine since we were there.”

Lancelot has to laugh at that, the combination of Merlin’s words and his expression. “I am not monitoring you, Merlin,” he says, tempted to point out that Merlin is not a child and should not require constant supervision, but thinking it is perhaps a little too cruel. “We both know the reasons why it is a good idea for you to stay away from Gwaine, and I am not going to keep checking on you.”

Merlin hmphs at him, then half smiles. “Right, then. Sorry.”

“It is fine,” Lancelot answers. “You have nothing to apologise for, Merlin. I just wanted to say that you are doing well. I am proud of you.” It is only once the words have left his mouth that Lancelot realises how patronising they sound, but what is said cannot be unsaid (oh, but if it could, how much he would unsay), and Merlin knows what he means by it, anyway.

“Thanks,” Merlin mutters, but the wind seems to have left his sails. His shoulders slump, his voice gets considerably quieter, and his smile is nowhere to be seen. “It sucks, though. Even more because I know you’re right.”

Arthur chooses that moment to come barrelling towards them, seeming to hone in on Merlin’s unhappiness. “Are you upsetting my manservant, Lancelot?” he asks, his tone balancing rather well on the fine border between joking and not. “He’s already maudlin enough, without you making things worse.”

“Because you’re making so much effort to make my life easier, aren’t you, Arthur?” Merlin says, the humour he probably intends to be there falling flat. “What is it now?”

“Lunch, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur drawls. “Have yours now; I have something to attend to.”

It is a sign of just how much all is not well with Merlin that he neither asks what Arthur apparently has to do nor offers any kind of sarcastic remark in response to Arthur’s brisk dismissal of him. Instead, he just leaves, head down, the very picture of misery. “You have business to attend to?” Lancelot asks; Arthur needs someone to put questions to him in the same way Merlin usually would, for his own peace of mind as much as everyone else’s.

“Yes,” Arthur states, his eyes still on Merlin’s retreating back. “Yes, I’m going to fix this, once and for all.”

If he were Merlin, the old, heart-as-yet-unbroken Merlin, Lancelot would find the words to say here. He would be able to point out how absurd it is that Arthur thinks he can repair things, and how poorly received his attempt is going to be. He would be able to discourage him without feeling the need to defer to Arthur, his king; calling him by name is as much insolence as Lancelot is capable of. “I do not think talking to Gwaine will help, if that is what you are planning,” he murmurs, so softly as to be almost inaudible.

“Don’t worry so, Lancelot,” Arthur says, laughing. “You’ll start to sound like Merlin if you’re not careful.”

If only he could, Lancelot thinks, he would find objecting to Arthur’s foolishness far easier.

X

Gwaine ignores the knocking on his door because it’s early (okay, not that early, since ‘Reth left for breakfast so long ago that it’s probably approaching lunchtime now), he’s tired (despite the fact that he does almost nothing other than sleep), and no one seems to have an appropriate level of sympathy for the fact that between Arthur and Merlin he’s pretty much trapped in his room. Of course, ignoring whoever it is does as much good as it ever does (which is to say, none), because Gareth forgot to lock the door when he left yet again and Gwaine couldn’t be arsed to get out of bed in order to do it himself; it opens, then closes with a gentle, inescapable thud. Footsteps make their way over to Gwaine, and he continues his excellent plan of pretending there’s no one there, right up until the edge of his bed dips with the weight of someone sitting on it.

Gwaine flings back his covers, intent on glaring until his visitor fucks the hell off, but pauses a moment when he realises said visitor is Arthur, and probably not there to wish him well.

“Good morning,” the king says, his tone of voice almost pleasant, and smiles a smug smile that makes Gwaine want to hit him in the hope that it’ll vanish.

Hitting the king (and, indeed, the royal family in general, although Morgana might be an exception to that rule) is never wise, however, even when Gwaine might get away with it thanks to his recent Arthur-induced injury. Of course, that doesn’t matter much, when he has an alternative response that’s pretty much guaranteed to make Arthur splutter speechlessly for long enough to make Gwaine feel slightly less irritated.

“Good morning, _sire_ ,” he replies, just a little saddened by his inability to sound quite as contemptuous as Merlin does when he says that word. “Have to say, I never thought I’d see the day I’d have you in my bed. You’re not my normal type, but seeing as you’re the king I’ll make an exception, give you something to compare your wedding night to.” And, just in case Arthur hasn’t got the message, Gwaine pulls himself into a sitting position, rests his hand on Arthur’s thigh, and leers.

It takes Arthur approximately three seconds of confused gawping, his mouth falling open and wordlessly clicking shut again, for him to realise that yes, Gwaine has just said what he thinks he has (with no intention of following through with it, thank you very much, but Arthur doesn’t need to know that), and yes, it means exactly what he thinks it does.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Arthur roars, leaping to his feet and just about launching himself several yards away from the bed, and if Gwaine had been serious about coming on to him he’d be offended. As it is, this is exactly the response he wanted, and it’s just as entertaining as he hoped it would be. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he says over Gwaine’s spluttered laughter, with a fair bit less volume but no less horrified fury than before.

“Don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear like that before,” Gwaine says, ignoring both of Arthur’s questions, because he’s pretty damn sure Arthur already knows the answer.

Arthur takes a step forwards, the last remnants of surprise draining from his expression to leave something stronger than anger but not quite making it into the territory of outrage. “You are not here to laze around in your room all day making utterly inappropriate suggestions.”

“Like I’d ever actually want to shag you,” Gwaine growls. “The effort it would take to get the fucking huge stick out of your arse would far outweigh any pleasure I got from sticking my cock in it.”

Arthur splutters again, but it doesn’t last half as long this time and when he recovers he takes deep, calming breaths, apparently having realised that Gwaine is doing his absolute best to piss him off and deciding that the best response is to ruin his fun entirely by not reacting. “You’re being ridiculous,” he states, in a tone that suggests this is some deeply important fact he’s conveying.

“Am I?” Gwaine answers levelly, because two can play at this no-reaction thing. “Sorry, I’ll stop that right away.”

Arthur sits back down again, although this time he settles for the chair at Gwaine’s bedside rather than on the bed itself, and why he didn’t sit there in the first place Gwaine has no idea. Gwaine doesn’t flinch under his scrutiny, because he’s gotten used to people staring at him silently over the last few days, and Arthur isn’t any more menacing than anyone else. Not that that means he likes it, but since he’s awake and won’t to be going back to sleep until Arthur buggers off, he sure as hell isn’t going to be giving Arthur the satisfaction of knowing that he’s getting to him, if he can help it.

Thankfully, Arthur tires of the silent stare-down before Gwaine has to let on how irksome it is and demand that he gets to the point. He leans forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, and glares. “I did not summon you back here so that you could make Merlin even unhappier.”

“No, you just thought it would be nice if I could be here for your wedding, right?” Gwaine asks, tone innocent even as he smiles in a way that almost guarantees a pissed off Arthur. “Unless there was some other reason you called me back here…?”

“You know damn well why you’re here, Gwaine,” Arthur says, still making a visible effort to remain calm. “For reasons I will never comprehend, you mean a great deal to Merlin. It is for that reason, and that reason _alone_ , that I called you back here. He was unhappy in your absence. I did not expect you to return here and make things worse.”

“No,” Gwaine drawls, and he never realised until now that he could be disappointed in Arthur, that he has a high enough opinion of him that he could feel let down. “No, you just thought you could drag me back here and tell me to start shagging Merlin again and everything would be absolutely fine.”

“Well, why not?” Arthur shrugs, looking at Gwaine like he’s the idiot and his own actions are totally reasonable. Like every king takes this much interest in who his servants are or aren’t sleeping with, like it’s his right to treat a man who has pledged fealty to him like this. Like Gwaine doesn’t have feelings of his own, like Merlin isn’t the villain of this piece just as much as Gwaine and Lancelot and Arthur all are. “You’ll sleep with anyone else who so much as looks at you, and you’ve slept with Merlin before. Why refuse now?”

“You command my sword and my loyalty, Arthur,” Gwaine says, and how the hell does Arthur not realise that he can’t just ask these things of people. “You can order me to follow you into battle and I will. You can order me to fuck the hell off and I’ll go, and I’ve already show that I’ll come running back when you tell me to. You can order me to leave this bed and this room and the whole fucking kingdom if you want, but this is _not_ something you can command of me.”

“Why?” Arthur asks again, and there’s really only one way Gwaine can think of to put this, one way that will make sense to Arthur, even if it’s not entirely the truth.

“Because I don’t want to,” he lies. “That reason enough for you? King or not, I’m damn sure I still have the right to say no.”

Arthur stares, long enough for him to work out that Gwaine isn’t going to shift on this. “Fine,” he says, standing and glaring so intently that he looks likely to either spit on Gwaine or pummel him. “In that case, you _will_ get out of bed tomorrow, you _will_ get out of this room, and you _will_ be at breakfast, lunch and dinner, regardless of your injury.”

Arthur stomps to the door, yanking it open before Gwaine has the chance to say anything. “Ah,” he says, stepping to one side and holding the door. “Do come in. _Sir_ Gwaine, your whore is here.”

Montague walks in, one eyebrow raised as he looks from Arthur to Gwaine. “I’m just bringing him lunch, sire,” he states. “Neither of us wants anything more than that.”

The snort Arthur emits is both unbelieving and distinctly unkingly, and as he turns his back, the only thing Gwaine can think of to say to him is, “Anyway, _sire_ , it’s the other way around.”

X

Arthur storms into the mess hall, opening the doors with so much force that they crash against the walls, the noise startling everyone from their meals. He stomps over to the table where the serving girls stand, every pair of eyes on him, and _glares_. “The next person,” he begins, speaking loudly enough that the entire hall can hear, “to try and take food from this hall for someone who chooses not to come down for a meal will spend a night in the cells. Is that clear?”

Lancelot exchanges glances with the others, then flicks his eyes over to Merlin, who is staring at the king with his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. He resumes motion ever so slowly, not taking his gaze from Arthur, but Lancelot knows Merlin has drawn the same conclusion that he – and most likely Leon, Elyan and Percival, possibly Gareth as well – has.

Arthur did indeed speak to Gwaine.

It did not go well.

If he were Merlin, Lancelot would probably say _I told you so_.

X

For the second time that day, Gwaine finds himself with someone unwelcome sitting on his bed. Montague looks far more relaxed about it than Gwaine imagines Arthur did, lounging there with his back propped up on the headboard and his legs out in front of him, not particularly clean boots resting on Gwaine’s blankets.

For some reason, Gwaine feels no desire whatsoever to taunt him the way he did with Arthur earlier.

“Well,” Montague says, shoving the plate at Gwaine (stew, _again_ , and he gets that there’s a major food shortage right now, he really does, but is that honestly the only thing the kitchens can make from what they’ve got?). “Guess that explains why Merlin isn’t too pleased with me lately.”

“You’re getting mud on my bed,” Gwaine answers, grimacing; how is it that people don’t get the fact that Merlin is not a topic that’s open for discussion?

Montague grins, and Gwaine realises immediately that he isn’t going to move, as any normal person would. Instead, he just toes off his boots, knocking them onto the floor, and Gwaine snorts at him, reluctantly amused.

The grin brightens momentarily, then flickers and dies.

“That wasn’t what it was,” Montague continues; Gwaine wishes he didn’t know what he was talking about, but he does. “You know that, right?”

A shrug is the only response Gwaine can muster, and the stew is far more interesting than he’d thought it was. Yep, definitely interesting, requiring all of his attention and more. In fact, he’s not sure anything has ever been as interesting as this stew is, not sure anything ever will be, and why can’t people just leave him alone?

Montague huffs at him; much as Gwaine is trying not to see him, he catches a head shake in the very corner of his eye. “You had drunk more than a bit,” Montague says, so carefully it’s like he thinks Gwaine will shatter if he speaks with any less caution. “I was insistent, you had nowhere else to go, and, more than anything else, you were hurting. Forgiving yourself isn’t a crime, Gwaine.”

Gwaine can’t suppress a shudder here, no matter how he tries; whilst the stew may be there for him to stare at, it is, unfortunately, silent, and the general noise of the city is not enough to drown out Montague’s voice.

“Right, then,” Montague says. “Going back to not talking about it. Now, stop glaring at your lunch and start eating it. After the trouble we all go to to get you meals, it’d be a damn shame for it to go to waste.”

Gwaine glances up at him then, mildly confused. “What trouble?”

“Kingdom on the brink of starvation, remember?” Montague points out. “Sometimes Leon’s authority is enough to get a meal out of there for you, other times we’ve had to go a little higher up. Depends who’s serving, and who does the asking.”

“ _You’ve_ interrupted Arthur to get me something to eat?” Gwaine asks; somehow, he really can’t see that happening. Montague might be smarter than Gwaine thought he was that first night, might be decent in a way that shouldn’t be surprising but is, but he’s either too cowardly or too intelligent to go up against Arthur just for Gwaine’s sake.

“Just the once,” Montague says. “Mostly Sir Lancelot did, given that the king is more inclined to listen to him than most of us, you and me in particular. Now, eat.”

The meat – Gwaine can’t quite decide if it’s beef or lamb – is so tough that it beggars belief, the broth is bland, and Gwaine never truly thought there’d come a time where he misses vegetables, but apparently there has. Ale, yes, and chicken and meat. Bread and cheese and _apples_ , certainly. The candied fruits Merlin used to steal for them sometimes, sweet and sour all at once, a perfect contrast to the salt of Merlin’s skin. If he’d been asked, before, what foods Gwaine thought he’d miss most if they vanished, they’d all have made the list, but right now he’d love little more than to have lumps of carrot, potato and turnip in the bowl before him.

Still, he eats every last mouthful, because it’s about all he can do in gratitude for everything Lance has done for him lately.

On the other hand, at least he can tell Lance he can stop keeping an eye on Gareth, given that sitting in his room and starving is not a path Gwaine is willing to take. He’ll just have to fake his injury as best he can, and find some way to rid the kingdom of anyone who works it out.

It’s Merlin, after all, and Gwaine will do a whole lot worse than kill for him if he has to.

X

Shortly after Arthur’s very determined announcement, Gareth sidles over to Lancelot’s table and sits down. “This is Gwaine fault, isn’t it?” he says softly, not sounding in the least bit surprised.

“I would think so, yes,” Lancelot agrees. “He does have a habit of upsetting Arthur.”

“And everyone else,” Gareth says. “I’d say he doesn’t mean to, but we both know he does.”

“ _Sometimes_ ,” Lancelot argues; Gwaine can be irksome, certainly, and takes great joy in annoying Arthur, but at least half the time his impressive powers of irritation are accidental. “Gwaine does not do it deliberately. And, even if he does, we should probably still let him know he will need to join us for dinner.”

Gareth stands up, then waits for Lancelot to eat his last mouthful before clearing their plates away. He lets them get all the way to the door before glancing back over his shoulder. “Should we ask Merlin to come with us?” he asks, somewhat surprising Lancelot.

“And why would we do that?” Lancelot answers, wary but trying not to seem it.

“He looks sad,” Gareth says, nodding in Merlin’s direction; he has finished eating, probably did a fair few minutes ago, and yet he remains in the hall anyway, no doubt unwilling to see to Arthur after his visit to Gwaine. He does, as Gareth said, look sad. “It’s just… Maybe we shouldn’t leave him?”

“He will be fine,” Lancelot says, hoping it is not obvious how much his words are intended to convince himself as much as they are Gareth. “Merlin is stronger than he lets on.” This, Lancelot knows, is not a lie, and even if it were, he imagines the downsides of taking Merlin with them to see Gwaine to be somewhat larger than those of leaving him alone with his sorrow.

He plans to walk with Gareth as far as Gwaine’s door and no further, but when Gareth walks in – merely opening the door and barging in, without anything even resembling a knock; clearly, stubbornness is not all the brothers have in common – he immediately turns around and retreats again, closing the door firmly behind him.

“Um,” he says, face flushed almost to the colour of the knights’ cloaks. “I… ah… that’s…” he pauses a moment, looking down at his feet, then back up again, quite determinedly avoiding looking at Lancelot. “Sorry,” he calls loudly through the door, shoulders tense. “I… sorry.”

Over Gareth’s embarrassed mumbles, Lancelot hears what can only be described as gales of laughter, followed by an exaggerated and faked – oh, gods be good, Lancelot hopes it is faked, because he truly does not wish to hear Gwaine and… is that Montague? in the throes of passion – moan.

“Oh,” a voice – yes, definitely Montague – says, half-screams. “Oh, yes, yes, there.”

With a roll of his eyes, Lancelot nudges Gareth out of the way. “That is quite enough of that,” he says, opening the door far enough for Gareth to see Gwaine and Montague, both fully dressed – even if they are seated on Gwaine’s bed – and trapped in paroxysms of laughter.

“I can’t believe,” Gwaine chokes out, gasping for breath, “that you actually thought… Really, ‘Reth… that’s…”

“I _hate_ you,” Gareth whines, and seems highly perturbed when that only makes Gwaine laugh harder.

X

_Arthur_ , Merlin scrawls on a single sheet of parchment. _Knowing how much you loathe hypocrisy, I thought you’d want to start eating in the hall with everyone else. See you there_.

It’s petty, yes, but Merlin feels no qualms whatsoever about leaving the note on Arthur’s table when he’s finished the tasks he has to do in Arthur’s room. Arthur’s king now, after all, not just waiting to be, and it’s about damn time he worked out that not everything Merlin does is his business.

He doesn’t actually expect Arthur to be there when he goes to have dinner two hours later.

X

“Merlin!” Arthur calls loudly as soon as Merlin enters the mess hall, causing every single pair of eyes in the room to focus on him. No, Merlin amends, wincing, every pair of eyes but one; Gwaine’s back remains resolutely turned to him, the rigidity of his spine and set of his shoulders clear evidence of tense discomfort. “You’re late,” Arthur continues, just as people seem to be showing signs of returning to their meals. “We’re nearly finished over here.”

Regretfully, Merlin makes his way through the queue for food (now fairly small, since, yeah, he’s definitely late), pastes a smile on his face (nowhere near as big as the smug one Arthur is wearing, but a smile nonetheless) and heads over to join his king and pretty much all of his friends, knowing damn well that he shouldn’t. Sitting at that table is not staying away from Gwaine, and this is not the place to have his magic flickering out of control – there is no place to have his magic flickering out of control, not even in the confines of his locked bedroom – but he’s going there anyway, drawn by invisible, unbreakable bonds.

There is a general shuffle as he approaches, largely directed by Arthur, and so by the time he gets to them there is enough space for him to squeeze in between Arthur and Lancelot, directly opposite Gwaine, and absolutely no room anywhere else at the table.

Awkward doesn’t quite cover it, really.

X

Gwaine isn’t quite sure why he spent the vast majority of the afternoon practicing walking with a limp when what he really should have been doing is practicing saying, “Hi, Merlin, how are you?” without feeling an uncomfortable need to adjust his trousers.

The thing is, it didn’t even occur to him to question Arthur’s presence, if he’s completely honest, but then perhaps that total lack of curiosity can be excused by the fact that the king does on occasion do odd things for no reason other than that he can. But whatever the reason, Gwaine finds that over the last few days he’s turned into one of those boring puppet-knights most kingdoms suffer from, who jump without even asking how high. He is Not Happy, and yet when Arthur shouts for him to join them and Lancelot looks slightly desperately at him from beside the king, who is Gwaine to refuse?

He can feel eyes on him from the moment Merlin sits down, more so than there had been before: Merlin, looking at him warily from under his lashes, an invisible, appetite-killing current seeming to flow straight from his skin to Gwaine’s; Arthur, appraising and mildly victorious, utterly blatant in his staring; Lancelot, kind concern split equally between Gwaine and Merlin; Leon, Elyan, Percival and Gareth, all varying levels of confused and trying to figure what’s going on. Montague isn’t sitting with them, and had Gwaine been aware enough to realise that was an option before sitting down, he sure as hell would have taken it. But, on the other hand, perhaps he just wasn’t invited to join them, and doesn’t that thought make Gwaine feel like a dick.

Really, between the tingly tension coming from Merlin, the brutal scrutiny from Arthur, the guilt for worrying Lancelot and the fact that he’s sitting surrounded by people who proved only weeks ago how willing they are to think the absolute worst of him, Gwaine doesn’t want to eat at all.

He stands up, leaving his plate still half-full on the table, props himself up on his stick, and limps out, uncomfortably aware of just how many people in the room are watching him, of the need to make his pretence convincing, for Merlin’s sake. Tomorrow, he’ll wait until later to eat, and he sure as hell won’t be joining anyone.

X

Lancelot thinks, just for a moment, as Merlin sits beside him and Gwaine sits opposite, Arthur on Merlin’s other side and the rest of their friends, brothers, around them, that things might actually be returning to something close to normal. It is still tense and uncomfortable, but for a minute everyone is actually in the same place at the same time, something that may pass as a conversation taking place between them, and it feels almost, almost like before.

Gwaine, he knows, would curse him for being such an optimistic fool, but then Gwaine is not staying around long enough to finish his meal, let alone realise how much Lancelot hopes things could return to how they used to be.

X

“We’re going for a drink,” Leon says, half-perching on Lancelot’s table as he speaks, Elyan, Percival and Montague hovering behind him. “Are you coming with us, Lancelot? Gareth?” He pauses a second, then perseveres. “Gwaine, we’d like you to join us as well.”

It’s a day or two since Gwaine last stormed from the room at mealtime, so Lancelot allows the silence that follows Leon’s offer to drag on far too long, in the futile hope that, just maybe, Gwaine is going to do the mature thing and respond, even if it is only to decline the invitation. Needless to say, he does not, because Gwaine has the emotional maturity of a five-year-old without the easily forgiving nature, so instead of speaking, Gwaine just frowns at his plate, visibly annoyed, and says nothing.

“Gareth and I will be along shortly,” Lancelot agrees, hoping his acceptance will soften Gwaine’s rejection of yet another attempt at repairing the mess caused during Gwaine’s first days back in the city. “Thank you.”

Leon nods, casts one last glance at Gwaine, who does not return it, and gives up.

X

Somewhere in the region of his third day wandering around the castle again, Gwaine realises Merlin is avoiding him.

He isn’t sure why it stings, when he’s doing the exact same thing.

X

Lancelot’s patience trickles out slowly but unceasingly; he allows Gwaine the grand total of a fortnight of sulking before deciding it has gone on for long enough.

Gwaine has just dismissed yet another attempt from Leon to make amends for his erroneous assumption with nothing more than a very irritated silence when Lancelot’s tolerance runs out entirely.

“That is enough,” he snaps, heedless of their audience, which is at least smaller than it would have been had Gwaine been willing to eat at the same time as the majority of people. “Grow up, Gwaine.”

Gwaine stares at him, face drawing steadily into a mask of fierce, fiery anger. He throws down his cutlery and rises to his feet, slowly enough that if Lancelot did not know better he would be completely willing to believe it actually hurt him. “Goodbye, Lancelot,” he says, simply and without elaboration, but with unquestionable finality.

Lancelot resolves to try again the next time Gwaine is out of his room, although at this point, he rather thinks it would be easier to give up.

X

“Have you been by the training field since you got back?” Montague asks, joining Gwaine at his table in the dining hall, Gareth trailing along behind him.

Gwaine considers pointing out that walking that far probably doesn’t count as resting his leg, let alone all the stairs between here and there, but since Lance accused him of being an irritable bastard (or the supremely polite equivalent of it, at least) he’s trying to be a little less rude. He shakes his head, gestures vaguely to his stick, and returns to glaring at his meal.

“No, I thought not. You won’t have noticed, then, the slight… redecoration one of the fence-posts has undergone in your absence.” Since his food isn’t changing in any way as a result of the look he is fixing it with and Montague is _still_ talking, Gwaine shifts the focus of his glare from the former to the latter and waits for Montague to either reach his point (because it’s rare that he doesn’t have one, even if it takes a while for him to get to it) or shut the hell up. “See,” he continues after a moment, and Gwaine drops the glare when Montague’s only response is an irritating smirk, “King Arthur took to teaching Merlin knife-throwing in your absence. As you can probably imagine, it wasn’t a strength of his.”

He pauses a second time, tilting his head to one side; usually, Gwaine appreciates dramatic flair, being so possessed of it himself, but today it’s just irritating. “Do continue,” he prompts, “Anytime you feel like it is just fine with me.”

“Gwaine, you’re being rude again,” Gareth chimes in. “I know Lancelot talked to you about that.” And that, right there, is why Gwaine can’t approve of Gareth’s admiration for Lance (aside from the fact that Lancelot will never be able to feel anything close to it in return), because it’s bad enough having to listen to Lance’s moralising without having his brother repeat his words like they’re law.

Montague’s smirk grows, but before Gwaine can bitch at him for it, he carries on with whatever convoluted tale he’s telling. “My first day of ‘testing’, I happen to mention that I’d met you. Next thing I know, I’m on the floor with Percival lying on top of me and a knife buried in the fence post, about level with… Well, places I’d rather not have a knife ending up in.”

“Merlin threw a knife at you?” ‘Reth asks, and Gwaine is glad he chooses that to focus on rather than anything else.

“Yep,” Montague says, shrugging. “I mean, everyone says it was an accident, and I don’t see how it couldn’t have been. It’s not like he can hit the things he’s aiming for most of the time.”

“‘Reth, go sit with Leon and the others,” Gwaine instructs abruptly, keeping his eyes fixed on Montague. “I need to talk to Sir Montague for a bit.”

“But-”

“ _Now_ , Gareth. Before I use your head to find out just how effective a weapon this stick is.” It takes Gareth a second or two decide how serious a threat this is (the answer is _very_ , because there is a whole lot of tone to Montague’s words that Gwaine is not at all fond of), at which point he gets up without a word and leaves them. “Right,” Gwaine says, and if he’d been angry before it’s nothing compared to right now. “What the hell are you implying?”

“Not implying anything,” Montague answers, looking just a little startled; Gwaine can’t decide if it’s an act or if he’s actually surprised by his anger, but a frown covers both options equally well. Montague smiles, but for the first time since they called this uneasy truce they have, it’s wary, uncertain, although his voice when he carries on is breezy and light. “Nope, no implications here. Not implying anything. In fact, let’s talk about something else. How’s your leg today?”

“Like you would have said anything at all if you didn’t have a reason to,” Gwaine says sceptically. “What exactly are you getting at?”

Montague eats quietly for a good couple of minutes, and Gwaine figures he’s trying to continue with the denial, despite the fact that Gwaine has already called him on his bullshit. When Gwaine does nothing but stare, he nods, putting his fork down and leaning across the table. Gwaine copies him, eyebrows raised, and drawls, “Waiting…”

“The timing wasn’t just a little coincidental,” Montague says. “Fact is, Merlin found out that we shagged and he just about chopped my bits off. I don’t really care how he did it, but I’m not stupid enough to believe the two aren’t connected.”

It is Gwaine’s turn to be surprised, because Montague sounds pretty damn serious about not caring; he’d rather thought the whole point of this conversation was Montague making vague hints about Merlin’s magic. As it is, he’s not entirely sure what’s going on. “I repeat, what are you getting at?”

Montague sits back again, spreading his hands in a gesture Gwaine interprets to mean _isn’t it obvious?_ “Would he really have done that if he didn’t care?”

Gwaine relaxes a little, because this he can deal with. “I never doubted that he _cared_ ,” he scoffs. “That was never the problem.” If anything, Merlin cared too much. Which isn’t something Gwaine could ever have anticipated being a problem, but it turns out Merlin loves him far too much and entirely in the wrong way.

Montague’s face is distinctly exasperated when he speaks. “In that case, I have to say, you’re completely over-thinking things.”

“Mate,” Gwaine laughs in response, refusing to follow his gaze to Merlin’s slumped shoulders and dejected expression. He knows how bad Merlin looks, feels; he doesn’t need to see it as well. “You are the first person ever to accuse me of that.”

It takes a long moment of staring at Montague’s pleased expression for Gwaine to think back over his words and work out why it’s there, and then another long moment for him to realise that the reason he doesn’t want to take it back is because it’s actually true.

X

“I thought you were sitting with Gwaine today?” Lancelot asks as Gareth places a half eaten plate on the table beside him. “What changed?”

Gareth shrugs at him, sits down, and starts shovelling food into his mouth. “Montague said something to the effect of Merlin being a lousy shot.” He pauses, then seems to realise that Merlin is sitting there with them. “No offence.”

“It’s true,” Merlin says, half-smiling, which, Lancelot thinks, is a whole lot better than it could be. “Not sure why you’re here, though.”

“Gwaine got all defensive about it, threatened to beat the crap out of me if I didn’t clear off,” Gareth explains, adding as a sort of afterthought, “He’s way protective of you, you know.”

Merlin does not respond to that; for that matter, he does not look away from his plate.

“I see,” Lancelot says after a moment of supremely uncomfortable silence. “Well, then…” he starts, only to realise that he does not have anything to follow this up with.

“Drinks?” Leon suggests.

“Gods, yes,” Lancelot answers, then feels mildly remorseful for the fact that he did not pause for so much as a second before saying it.

“I’ll just wait for Gwaine,” Gareth says, as Lancelot stands with the others, preparing to clear away his plate and go. “You never know, he might decide to come with us today.”

Lancelot is not quite mean enough to point out how futile this hope is, but he is not quite kind enough to wait with him either.

X

“We’re going for drinks,” Gareth says, ambling back over when he sees Gwaine is done talking. “You coming?”

Gwaine looks at him, wondering just what it’s going to take for his brother to give up asking shit like this. He’d’ve been miffed with Lance for leaving him alone, but for the fact that it means Lance isn’t waiting for him, means Lance is smart enough to know Gwaine is a lost cause. Hell, even Merlin has given up, and Gwaine doesn’t know that Merlin has ever really given up on someone before. Even Morgana, if she came back truly repentant and asking for help would probably get a chance, so yeah, Gwaine is pretty much beyond help.

“We’ll be there,” Montague says, cutting into Gwaine’s increasingly miserable thinking like a knife. “Go on ahead, kid.”

Gareth nods, grins, and departs, it apparently not occurring to him to wonder exactly which _we_ Montague is talking about, ‘cause Gwaine sure as heck doesn’t plan on going anywhere other than to bed. “Come on, then,” Montague says. “We’re going.”

Gwaine laughs, then decides to mix things up by frowning when he realises Montague is actually serious. “You might be…” he says, trailing off since he’s fairly certain Montague can fill in the blank.

“Really?” Montague asks. “I mean, the way I see it, you’re running out of friends.”

“Am not,” Gwaine snaps, sort of instinctively, then feels his brain catch up with his mouth. “And anyway, why would I care? Not like friends are something I’m used to having many of.”

Montague scoffs, though Gwaine isn’t sure whether it’s that he doesn’t believe Gwaine wasn’t exactly rolling in friends before he came to Camelot or because he doubts Gwaine’s claiming not to care. In the interest of preserving his ego, Gwaine decides it’s the first. “By my count, I’ve got more friends here than you. I mean, yeah, the king and Sir Lancelot despise me, but His Majesty isn’t exactly fond of you either and I’m fairly sure you noticed Lancelot not bothering to wait for you to turn down the invitation tonight.”

“Lance just recognises when something is beyond hope,” Gwaine says, during Montague’s brief pause for breath.

“Lancelot is the most patient person I’ve ever met. If he’s given up on you, like you say, then you’ve fucked something up in a pretty damn monumental way. And, as for the rest of them, they made a not entirely irrational assumption and you insist on hating them for it, like you’ve never made a mistake yourself.”

“Fuck you,” Gwaine snaps. “‘Not entirely irrational’? You’ve known me for all of a month. What gives you the right to say shit like that?”

Montague stares at him like the answer ought to be obvious, then rolls his eyes when Gwaine’s presumably blank expression shows it isn’t. “You refer to yourself as a whore, Gwaine. If you think that little of yourself, can you really blame other people for doing the same?”

Gwaine has no answer for that, beyond the fact that they should think better of him, that he wants them to, that he thought they did. He knows he’s not worth all that much as a person, is hardly moral and good and all the things a knight is supposed to be, but he did think he had a home here, with people who know he’s not perfect but know he’s not abominable either. “Fine,” he says after a moment. “Right. Say we pretend that I’m over it, and that I actually _want_ to go for a drink. Explain to me how I get back again.” He taps his knee with his stick, then realises how dumb that is because he has to pretend that it hurts, but it makes his point as well as anything, he supposes. Of course, the problem is less that he won’t be able to walk back to his bed and more that he might not remember he shouldn’t be able to walk back to his bed, but the pretence is still a solid and fairly important one.

“Percival’s part giant, isn’t he?” Montague says, laughing. “If needs be, I’m sure he can carry you back to your room. Or, failing that, we can leave you to freeze to death in an alley… You know, if you really don’t feel like forgiving them.”

“I’ll pass on that one, thanks,” Gwaine answers, shivering at the mere thought.

Montague grins at him, standing up. “I’m taking that as a yes, you know,” he says. “Now get up or I’ll nick your stick and leave you here.”

X

Merlin isn’t drunk, not by a long shot, but he is pleasantly buzzing. It’s a little inadvisable, perhaps, but it’s not like he’s going to see Gwaine before he sobers up and no one else is messing with his magic anywhere near as much as he is.

He’s helping Elyan with another round of drinks when his attention is snapped to the door by a force unknown. Or not, really, because ever since the decision was made that he needs to give Gwaine some space, it’s felt like he has a sixth sense forever telling him where he is, how far and in what direction. And right now, Gwaine is here.

“Well, blow me,” Elyan says, oh so eloquently. “He actually got him to show up.”

Merlin doesn’t know what to say, just plasters the biggest, brightest smile he can manage onto his face and continues dodging patrons until he’s back at the table. It’s too late for him to run away now, too late to do anything but carry on and hope he doesn’t do anything to out himself to the fairly full tavern.

“We weren’t expecting you,” Elyan says, handing around the drinks he carries. “I’ll just nip back and get you one, Gwaine.” His voice falters a little towards the end of the offer, like he’s only just remembering that Gwaine’s been rude and unpleasant to them pretty much since he got back.

“I’ve walked all this way,” Gwaine answers, sounding brash and just a tad bitter. “I can handle carrying one drink from there.” He hasn’t sat down yet, and seems uncomfortably aware of the fact that they’re one chair short and that everyone is gawping at him. “Thanks,” Gwaine adds after a moment, not quite grudgingly but not exactly with actual gratitude either. “Wouldn’t say no to someplace to sit, though, if it’s not too much trouble.” He pulls a smile onto his face, one that looks about as forced – not insincere, but definitely not natural – as the one Merlin is wearing.

“Go get your drink, idiot,” Gareth says, effectively breaking a little of the awkwardness. “We’ll sort you a seat.”

Gwaine nods once, and his smile becomes a whole lot more natural, and a whole lot more savage. “For the record, you lot,” he says, pointing a little wildly at Elyan, Leon and Percival, and Merlin supposes it’s probably meant to include him as well, even if Gwaine isn’t actually looking at him. “This means you’re forgiven. But the next time you so much as think something like that, I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

It’s probably the smile, but when Gwaine walks away from them to the bar, Merlin doesn’t think anyone doubts the severity of his threat.

X

“Hello there, gorgeous,” Gwaine says, leaning his elbows on the countertop at the bar.

“Long time no see, Sir Knight,” Bonnie answers, a smile like sunshine on her face. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

“Training accident,” Gwaine tells her, because _the king thought I was shagging someone and got all offended on Merlin’s behalf_? Probably not something he should be telling anyone not directly involved. “Been out of commission for a while.”

She glances down at his leg, and so many people have bought into the pretence so far that convincing this one, a woman who barely knows him, only just counts as a friend, really shouldn’t be any different. It feels like she can see right through him, though, but then maybe that’s just him being paranoid, worried about nothing. Or, more likely, he’s just tired of the sodding pretence, and if someone works it out then he can give it up without worrying about whether it’s been long enough for his knee to have healed naturally. Because as bored as he is with things as they stand now, Merlin is a whole lot more important.

“Sit down,” she says, a moment or so later, sticking a mug down in front of him and fixing him with serious eyes. “I want to talk to you.”

Gwaine doesn’t particularly want to listen, because nothing good ever begins with those words, but Bonnie’s a sweet girl and the longer Gwaine has away from the others the better. “What’s up, sweetheart?”

“Bea,” Bonnie calls. “Keep an eye on the bar, please. I’m taking a break.” She doesn’t wait for her sister to agree, just pushes herself up onto the bar, swings her legs around and hops down onto the ground. Gwaine tries not to stare at her legs as she does it, the view of her thighs that’s on display far too long to be called a flash, but he’s not above applauding when she lands, dainty as anything.

“Fairly sure there’s a hatch for you to go through, love,” he says as she grabs a seat beside him, unheeding of the looks she’s getting from people around them.

“Where’s the fun in that?” she asks, patting his arm and smiling that sunlight smile again, and if Gwaine hadn’t already been so utterly gone on Merlin when he got to know her… Well, a lot of things would have been different if it wasn’t for Merlin, wouldn’t they? “See,” she says, sober again, “I got an interesting offer while you were gone.”

“Not your father, darling. Don’t need to know about people propositioning you.”

“That’s not something my father needs to know about, either,” Bonnie says, wryly humorous. “No, this offer concerns you. Your new friend, the one you arrived with tonight, got himself in a spot of bother with Bea.”

“Way I heard it, it was less him getting himself in trouble and more him being helped into it.” Not that he’s going to chuck Lance’s name into it, however dickish a move it was for Lance to make, but he does wonder how much Bonnie knows and what she’s getting at with telling him this.

“You know that much, then,” she says, not looking all that surprised. “That’s not what I wanted to tell you, though. The thing is, I wasn’t exactly willing to get him out of trouble, because if I rescue one idiot then I have to rescue all of them, but Merlin was quite determined that I had to. He offered to tell me who it is you’re in love with in exchange.”

“You what?” Gwaine demands, not sure his ears are working properly. “ _Merlin_ was going up tell you… Merlin? Tall, skinny, blue eyes… We are talking about the same man, yeah?”

“Right down to the godsawful scarves he wears, yep,” Bonnie pauses, tilting her head to look at him, and Gwaine has to wonder what his own expression is like, whether he looks surprised (he is, that Merlin would offer to tell this that he worked so hard to keep quiet all the months Gwaine was with him) or sad (that Merlin would tell it for Montague of all people, when he never would have done so for Gwaine himself) or just damn confused, because hers is so very kind. “I’m not telling you this because I want to cause trouble, Gwaine,” she says, so softly that Gwaine has to lean in to hear her over the noise around them. “I know he’s your friend, and I respect that. You just need to be careful who you tell your secrets to.”

“I am, love,” he says, “and I’d trust Merlin with my life, even if he is shit at holding his drink.”

Bonnie purses her lips at this, like she can hear the absolute and utter truth in his words and doesn’t quite know what to think of it. “Are you just going to dismiss it as him being drunk?” she asks, as if that’s the only way Gwaine’s declaration makes sense. “It wasn’t a slip of the tongue; he was willing to sell something you spent months refusing to tell anyone in exchange for my help, and there’s no reason to believe he wouldn’t do it stone cold sober, too.”

Gwaine stands, and however surprised and confused he may have been earlier with the conversation, now he’s just pissed. “You go too far, Bonnie,” he says, his voice steady and angry-cold. “I trust Merlin with my life and my secrets, particularly those that are only secret because he wanted them to be.”

“I’m not quite sure what you’re saying.”

“I’m saying that you just accused the man I value above all others of being a worthless, untrustable bastard. Not a smart move to make, is it, darling?”

He stays just long enough to be certain that she’s got the message, then takes himself and his half full drink back over to the table. A chair is waiting for him, wedged between Leon and Lancelot, and he squeezes himself into it and the conversation, almost absurdly grateful for his friends; whatever twattish assumptions they may have made, he knows none of them would ever sink so low as to give up something he told them in confidence for their own personal gain, and it’s taken Bonnie’s well-meaning accusations for Gwaine to realise just how highly he ought to value that.

And if the rest of what Bonnie’s told him is true, he isn’t the only one undervaluing a decent friendship.

X

In some distant corner of his mind, Merlin is aware of being followed, which is why he doesn’t jump when a hand closes around his arm just outside of Gaius’ room. He doesn’t turn on them either, eyes flashing and magic bubbling wildly, ready to blast whoever’s stalking him and may pose a threat, because his Gwaine-sense is telling him to stay calm.

_I shouldn’t be talking to you_ , he thinks, but his actions are more along the lines of leaning in to Gwaine’s touch rather than pulling away.

“Merlin,” Gwaine says, and just as Merlin isn’t shaking him off, he’s not exactly being quick to let go. He pauses, staring at his hand like he isn’t entirely sure it’s his, thumb tracing patterns on the fabric of Merlin’s jacket, patterns that seem to burn through to his skin.

“Gwaine?” Merlin asks after a moment, quiet and as calm as he can manage, conscious of the late hour and the people who may trying to sleep nearby. “Did… Do you want something?” _Do you want me?_ he thinks, too desperate for the answer to be yes to do anything more than think it, and even that is dangerous.

Gwaine drags his eyes from his hand to Merlin’s face, and it’s only the half-rueful smile he wears that stops Merlin apologising as soon as he finishes his first sentence. “Bonnie told me what you offered, in exchange for her help. Seemed to think it meant I shouldn’t trust you with anything important, but-”

“You can,” Merlin interrupts, a little louder and far more earnest than is probably necessary. “Anything at all, you know that.”

“If you’d waited for me to finish my sentence…” Gwaine says, and Merlin can practically hear his eye-roll. “It’s bullshit, of course I trust you, and you know I’d’ve told anyone and everyone about us if you hadn’t wanted it to be a secret. Would have shouted it from the fucking rooftops that you were mine, even if, you know, you weren’t. But that’s not the point.”

“What is, then?” Merlin asks, because even now, knowing the full extent of his feelings for Gwaine, he can’t honestly say that he _is_ his, and that duty and desire aren’t tearing him in two, won’t always be tearing him in two.

“Point is, I know how much you wanted to keep that a secret, and I’ve no idea if my opinion even means anything to you, and gods know there’s no reason it should anymore, but it says a lot that you were willing to tell someone you barely know, and why you were willing says even more.” His voice turns bitter with those last words, colder, his hand tightening momentarily on Merlin’s arm before letting him go entirely, even if he doesn’t step away. “You never said anything for me, when we were together, but you did to help him, so…”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, and he should have known this would happen. Gwaine was always going to find out that Merlin as good as told this secret for someone he didn’t even like at the time, and he was always going to be hurt by it. “I am so sorry, Gwaine.”

Gwaine shakes his head. “Still not the point,” he says, “although I will grant it’s my fault for pausing this time. I think you should talk to him again, is all. Don’t know why you befriended him in the first place, but you did, so I had to because I’d never make you choose, Merlin. And now you’re not talking to him, and he’s hurt even if he won’t say it, and it’s not fair. My mistakes are my own, and the only person who should be blamed for this one is me.”

“I see,” Merlin says, and how strange that he is the one to back away. He shouldn’t have hoped, but he did, and however dumb a wish is it’s still a disappointment to not get it. “Was that all you followed me to say?”

Gwaine looks at him sadly, brokenly, and it’s not so much his eyes that seem older than they ought to but his face, drawn in lines of tiredness and drink and heartache. “I don’t know what else there is to say, Merlin,” he says, and Merlin didn’t think his heart could break any more than it already was, but it can. It is.

“I was never ashamed of you,” Merlin says, and Gwaine falters in his retreat, pausing but not turning, the stiffness of his shoulders the only indication that he’s listening. “I was ashamed of me, and how much I needed you, when… “ He stalls, not sure whether that sentence should end _I didn’t love you_ or _I loved him_ , but whichever he says will hurt Gwaine because he’s not going to pick up on the crucial use of past tense.

“Don’t really need the reminder,” Gwaine says, turning to face him, before Merlin can pick either option and follow it up with _but I’ve figured it out now, and I love you_. “But thank you. Appreciate you telling me that, Merlin. Think about forgiving him, yeah?”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s what’s right, isn’t it? What does what I want matter compared to that, love?” He smiles, so very sadly that, even if they do get back together some day in the future, Merlin will never forgive himself for how stupid he is. “Goodnight, Merlin.”

“Goodnight, Gwaine,” Merlin answers, because for tonight, that’s all he can say. As soon as his magic is his own again, he’s going to find Gwaine, lock them in a room together, and not let either of them out or anyone else in until he’s sure Gwaine isn’t ever going to wear anything other than a smile.

Until then, the best thing to do is to let Gwaine walk away.

X

It isn’t unusual for Merlin to enter Arthur’s rooms and find paper everywhere, particularly not since Uther’s illness, but this… This is just madness. Papers are scattered across the table, some mostly blank, others covered in Arthur’s largely illegible spider-scrawl, and Merlin can count at least three broken quills hidden in the remains of Arthur’s wasted afternoon.

“What is all this?” He asks, startling Arthur from whatever it is he’s doing with half the kingdom’s paper.

“Work, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says. “You ought to try it sometimes.”

Merlin stares at him, then begins his list. “This morning, I trained for just as long as you, began a search for clothes without bloodstains after Gareth elbowed me in the face, wrestled your lunch from the head cook, had my own lunch, and allowed your filthy, scabrous mutts to drag me around the training field until they were exhausted, but not quite so much that they didn’t try to drown me as I washed them afterwards, which meant a second change of clothes. As soon as I was warm and clean again, Gaius sent me out into the city to deliver cures, and winter decided it wasn’t quite done with us yet and dumped another foot of snow on me. I changed for a third time, and then I come up here to pick up after you, and find you’ve made even more of a mess than usual.”

“Gareth says you elbowed yourself in the face,” Arthur says, and Merlin seriously contemplates elbowing _him_ in the face. Not hard enough to leave bruises that’ll still be there on his wedding day, he wouldn’t do that to Gwen, but he’s quite sure he can make his point without doing lasting damage.

Instead, he counts to ten, then counts a second time just in case. “Arthur, it isn’t possible to elbow yourself in the face. Arms don’t bend that way.”

Arthur frowns thinkingly (as opposed to thoughtfully, because Arthur thinking doesn’t necessarily result in thoughts), and Merlin feels the need to go back to earlier topics before his king starts attempting the impossible. “Take my word for it, Arthur, please. You don’t need to try it.” He knows it’s not going to work, but Arthur might actually wait until Merlin’s left the room, so he can at least pretend he’s not sworn his loyalty to a man as foolish as that. “Now, I know what work is, and I know it is not this. What are you doing?”

“You know your work, Merlin, but you are a servant. _I_ , however, am the king. Do you expect your work to be the same as mine?”

“I know it doesn’t involve…” Merlin reaches for the closest piece of paper, ducking Arthur’s arm as he grabs for him, and the words he reads leave him speechless: _Guinevere, my Guinevere, with you by my side I have no fear_. “Is… Arthur, Gwen’s already agreed to marry you. You don’t need to write hideous poetry in order to woo her.”

Arthur stands and yanks the paper from Merlin’s hand (most of it, anyway; he gets the first lines back, but Merlin is left with a scrap reading _My love for you knows no bounds; it cannot be tied to the… bollocks_ , and is immediately reminded of why he helps write a lot of Arthur’s speeches). “A flurf flurf flurrr,” Arthur mumbles, hurriedly collecting together his belated attempts at winning Gwen’s heart.

“I didn’t catch that,” Merlin says, as sweetly as he can manage. “Do you want to try again?”

“I said I’m trying to write my vows, Merlin,” Arthur snaps, “So I’d appreciate it if you would _Shut. Up_.”

Merlin stares at him, then at the scrap of paper in his hands. “I see,” he says. “Three pieces of advice, then. First, keep it simple, just tell everyone why you’ve chosen her over all the beautiful princes and princesses you’ve had falling at your feet. Second, don’t try to make it rhyme. And third, in the name of all that is holy, don’t mention tying anything to your bollocks.”

He drops the scrap of paper on the top of the pile in Arthur’s arms while he’s still too appalled to speak, then decides it’s a good idea to escape before his king’s mind makes a reappearance.

X

Arthur isn’t the only one clearly affected by wedding preparations, though, Merlin realises over the course of a week. The kitchen staff are losing their collective mind over trying to prepare a feast when Arthur won’t allow them to use any more than a normal day’s rations, seamstresses have taken to measuring anyone who stands still long enough, and even the meekest and/or most pleasant of his fellow servants have started threatening the lives of anyone who gets between them and whatever they want to polish next.

Then, of course, there are there are the guests.

Invitations have been sent out across the land, to every major monarch not explicitly waging war with Camelot. It’s heartening to Merlin that this includes a few countries Uther was never willing to interact with thanks to their refusal to adopt his pigheaded anti-magic beliefs, even as he finds himself lying awake long into the night trying to anticipate any threats they may bring with them. Add to that days of cleaning out empty rooms, changing bed linens, and opening up the suite of rooms in which Uther and Ygraine lived during their marriage, and Merlin is exhausted, as is pretty much every other servant in the castle.

Gwen, on the other hand, has taken to trawling through massive tomes detailing the lineage of everyone invited to her wedding, all under the watchful eye of Geoffrey. Merlin isn’t quite sure why, because being able to greet every guest by name and ask after the wellbeing of every still-living member of their family is not going to make anyone forget that she isn’t one of them, and nor should she want to be. Arthur didn’t choose any of the princesses or fine ladies who are expected to show up, has overtly turned down some of them, and it’s obvious to all but their queen-to-be that she’s utterly superior to all of them.

Not that any of their attempts to convince her of this stand a chance of success.

X

Since the night where Bonnie told him of Merlin’s offer to spill the beans about their relationship, Gwaine has been back to the tavern every evening, at least in part because he thinks Lance could do with the company. The others come and go, as is their wont, but Lancelot has taken to ale like a fish to water, something Gwaine has failed to notice until right now, when he’s drinking regularly again himself.

He can’t say anything, either, because a reminder of why they’re both doing this is only going to make them feel worse. Sure, a _how’re you feeling?_ can mostly go by without reminding Lance about the hopelessness of his situation, but Gwaine can’t do anything more than that, and he can’t deal with feeling so fucking useless.

He can just match Lance pint for pint, until the two of them are too out of it to remember why they’re unhappy, even if they still know they are.

X

“Once upon a time,” Gwaine says, tugging the blankets up over Lancelot’s shoulder and perching on the edge of the bed beside him, trying to decide whether he ought to find a bucket for when Lance wakes up in the morning with a paralysing headache and overwhelming urge to vomit. “There was a handsome princess. Sure, he was dumb as a post, but if there was one thing people the kingdom over agreed upon it was that he shouldn’t have too much difficulty getting a girl.”

“You’re calling your princess _he_ ,” Lance points out (or Gwaine thinks that’s what he says, anyway, since neither of them is exactly coherent at this point). “It’s not very princessy. Princesses are usually girls.”

“Yeah, well, this one isn’t.” Lance still looks likely to complain, though, so Gwaine asks, “You want a story or not, mate?”

Lance frowns, rolling onto his side so that he’s facing Gwaine. “Did I ask for one?” he asks, and it’s not sarcastic the way it would be if their positions were reversed. It’s completely serious, painfully confused, and that’s what makes Gwaine answer honestly.

“Don’t know, mate. Sorry.” He flumps back on the bed beside Lancelot, swinging his legs up as well, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to give him the answers he wants. “So, this princess,” Gwaine continues, hearing Lancelot sigh next to him. “Undeniably good-looking, total idiot, but there was something about him that made people follow him, more than just because they were scared of what he could do to them if they didn’t.

“He was good, you see, most of the time, and even when he wasn’t he _thought_ he was doing the right thing, and people fell for him left, right and centre. His people _loved_ him, so much that it was kind of sickening, but there were two in particular, both servants in the princess’ household, who couldn’t live without him.”

“I don’t think I like this story,” Lance says. “I want a happy ending.”

“I’ll give you a choice. Two endings, and you can pick the one you like best,” Gwaine promises; this story is a lot less a story than either of them might like it to be, and that offer is a lot more serious than it really should be. If it was fiction, he could summon up an _and they all lived happily after_ with just a snap of his fingers and an awful lot of optimism, but it isn’t, and he can’t, and why the bloody hell he thought starting this was sensible Gwaine has no idea. “But this princess didn’t just have people who adored him. He had this group of followers, protectors of the realm, who risked their lives to keep the princess and his kingdom safe. They followed him because he was good, because they loved him and the ideals he stood for.

“Two of these protectors, though… They made a mistake. They were very different men, the two of them. One was noble and pure, so good that just knowing him made other men feel inadequate, while the other was a scoundrel, idiotic and unclean and if the first protector made other people feel inadequate then the second served to make them feel superior, but they both made the same stupid cock up. If they’d been anyone else, or the people they loved had been anyone else, it wouldn’t have mattered, but as it was… They fell in love, not with each other, which would have been fine, if a little odd, but with the two servants who loved the princess more than anyone. Again, it would have been fine, if the servants didn’t have the biggest hearts of anyone on earth, because even though they loved the princess, they loved his protectors, too, in a lesser way, enough that they could never really stop _hoping_. There was no chance, not while the princess lived, and they knew it, but even so they hoped, and it _sucked_.

“It was their duty to protect, though, not just the kingdom but the princess who ruled over it. And in a kingdom plagued by magical creatures and vengeful sorcerers and vicious curses, it wasn’t an easy job, and there were so many opportunities. I don’t know about the good man, but the other, sometimes he was tempted. Sometimes he saw the princess racing into danger and he thought, _what_ _if I don’t follow? What if I don’t save his life?_ Sometimes he thought of how he could let the princess die, mauled by wolves or trampled by beasts or stabbed by bandits, and no one would blame him if he acted sorry enough. If he grieved with the others, made everyone think that he was truly remorseful, that he regretted nothing as much as the fact that he just wasn’t fast enough… He could convince everyone it was an accident. And those who love the princess would grieve, too, long and hard for the man they loved, but in time they’d move on, and without the princess in the way, second place would become first place, and they’d all live happily ever after.

“And so the story goes one of two ways here. They come up against a creature one day, or a sorceress, or just an ordinary group of bandits, thieves, maybe smugglers. It’s just the three of them, the princess and the two protectors, and it’s such a good excuse, such an _opportunity_. In the first version of the story, they see the attack coming, in enough time that they _could_ stop it, and the princess charges in, sword waving, and the two protectors look at each other, and one of them thinks _if we don’t rush in there after him_ , and the other doesn’t say _we will, we do, we have to_.

“So, between the two of them, they don’t save the princess. The princess dies, a horrible, bloody death, and when they know it’s too late the protectors leap into action, killing their attackers and getting enough wounds themselves that their story is believable. They pick up the pieces – as many as they can, anyway – and take them back to the castle, and they hold the servants who love him in their grief. Then, when enough time has passed, when their love for the princess is not quite so much, when they are no longer crippled by the loss of the man they love, the servants turn to those who have been with them through it all, and it feels sort of like a happy ending.”

Gwaine falls silent, leaving the story like that, at ending number one, only half aware of having promised a second one, an alternative. Lance lies beside him, so silent that Gwaine thinks he might be asleep, breath soft and steady, until his hand moves, fingers gripping Gwaine’s. “And the other version?” he asks quietly, as Gwaine is on the verge of dozing off himself.

“The other version?” Gwaine asks. “Obvious, isn’t it? They look at each other and think _if we don’t run in there after him_ and then, right after, they both think _we could never live with ourselves if we didn’t_. So they charge in on his heels, and together the only real casualties are those attacking them and the odd cut and bruise each, and they head back home, all of them safe and well. The princess marries his girl, and the two of them live happily ever after, while the protectors and the other servant settle for drinking their sorrows away in each other’s miserable company.”

Again, Lance is quiet, making the soft, snuffling breaths of someone close to sleep. “I like the second ending better.”

“So do I, mate,” Gwaine says, eyes drifting shut, still holding Lance’s hand. “Means we’re both kind of fucked, doesn’t it, brother?”

X

Lancelot wakes, somewhat later than usual, to the sound of someone falling out of his bed. Since he himself is still in it, this causes a fair amount of confusion, but then the headache hits and he decides Gwaine could have somehow persuaded him to invite half the whores in Camelot into his bed and it would hardly matter.

“I,” Lancelot says, in the somewhat futile hope that whoever is currently lying on his floor is capable of sympathy, “am dying.”

“‘Fraid not, sunshine,” Gwaine’s voice slurs from the floor; Lancelot is simultaneously relieved and disgusted, until he realises he is still wearing all his clothes, including his boots, and never again is he going to trust Gwaine to see him safely back to his room again. Gwaine staggers to his feet, wobbling just a little, then perches on the edge of Lancelot’s bed. “Dying is what you’ll be after a morning of training. Come on.”

“I hate you,” Lancelot says, trying to find the optimal level of closed-eyes, a halfway point between having them open, which hurts, and scrunched shut enough to block out all light, which hurts just as much. “I _am_ dying, and you should be nice to me.”

He can feel Gwaine staring at him, even with his eyes almost closed and a homicidal madman driving spikes into his skull. The sensation goes away about the same time as his bed wobbles with the weight of Gwaine standing up, and Lancelot puts a hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep the inordinately large amount of ale he drank last night from making its reappearance.

“Right,” Gwaine says, moments later, from somewhat closer to Lancelot’s head. “You’ve got water here, mate, and a bowl if you desperately need to throw up. Drink it slow, and I’ll shut the curtains before I leave, make your excuses to Arthur, okay? Won’t tell him why, I guess. Reckon you could do without the aggro.”

Lancelot has not quite managed to find the words to express his gratitude (for Gwaine’s willingness to lie as much as anything else, because he would prefer that Arthur not know quite how much of a wreck he is) when he hears, very faintly, the door open and then close again, quieter than he knew Gwaine was capable of being.

X

It might just be in comparison to how shitty Lance seems to be feeling, but Gwaine is surprisingly alright this morning. Yeah, his head still hurts, and his teeth feel like they’ve grown fur overnight, but he’s up and about and remarkably cheerful to say it’s morning and he drank just as much as Lance last night.

He walks down to the training cellar, only half-heartedly leaning on his cane; half the castle probably saw him waving it around as he walked Lance up to his room last night, so it’s not like there’s all that much point in pretending anymore. He’s late, but then when isn’t he, and he can deal with Arthur’s ire just fine.

Still, it’s not exactly comfortable to have every pair of eyes on him as he enters the room, particularly when they’re as judgemental as most of these men are.

“What?” He says, and it’s not louder than necessary, whatever people may say. “You never seen a man recover from his injuries before?”

“Gwaine,” Arthur states, deeply unwelcoming. “Why are you here?”

“Thought I might join,” Gwaine says, because, as obvious as this fact is, this is how the game is played, and it’s even more important when they have an audience. “Lance is sick, figured I’d stand in for him until he’s a little less under the weather.”

If he wasn’t expecting it, Gwaine would be hurt by how much attention this comment gets, how much concern everyone seems to have for Lancelot, so much more than most people had when he was the one injured. It’s not a surprise, though, when Lancelot is so bloody likeable, and Gwaine… isn’t. “He’ll be fine, guys. He just needs rest.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, at least not to Gwaine, but he doesn’t hesitate before calling everyone else to order, dismissing Gwaine like he isn’t even there and, seriously, anyone’d think it was Gwaine who’d broken Merlin’s heart rather than the other way around.

X

“He’s fine, Merlin,” Gwaine says as he joins them, before Merlin can so much as open his mouth. “Really, we were just out a bit late last night, but I wasn’t going to tell Arthur that, was I?”

“You got Lancelot drunk?” Gareth asks, while Merlin does his best to hide the way his hands are shaking.

“Lance got himself drunk, ‘Reth. About all I could do to keep up with him, to be honest. Now, shouldn’t you have a sword or something, kid?”

“Wait up,” Merlin says, as Gareth sets off, really not wanting to be alone with Gwaine, not just yet. “I’ll come with you.”

Gareth grins, kind and a little bit dopey (talk about family resemblance). “It’s fine, Merlin. I’ll grab yours as well.”

He doesn’t give Merlin a chance to argue, ambling away like he hasn’t a care in the world. If only the rest of them could feel that way, Merlin thinks, turning to Gwaine, not even finding the energy to fake a smile, edgy and uncomfortable and yet… not; maybe, just maybe, Merlin feels a little less fizzly and out of control around Gwaine today. “You stayed with Lancelot, then?” Merlin says. “Gareth said you didn’t come back last night.”

Gwaine shrugs and half-nods. “Sat down for a minute, then fell asleep. He’s… Well, about as good as you’d expect, given that in a week the love of his life will be even more out of his reach than she-yeah.” Gwaine’s mouth snaps shut, and he makes some sort of aborted gesture, maybe the offer of a hug, and the idiot. The idiot.

Soon, very soon, Merlin will talk some sense into him, and keep talking until Gwaine gets it through his thick skull that Merlin loves him. He will, and it’ll be bloody fantastic because Merlin will know that it’s what they both want and that there won’t be anyone else, ever, for either of them, but not today, not quite yet.

“Do you want me to look after him tonight?” Merlin asks, not quite sure why he’s asking other than that, platonic and passed out drunk though Gwaine sleeping in Lance’s room may have been, he’s still a little bit unhappy about it.

“I’m not looking after him, Merlin,” Gwaine says quietly. “He’s not a child, and I’m not exactly fit to look after anyone, am I? I’m just… It’s what he’d do, yeah? Not leave me wallowing alone. So if we’re drinking and you want to come be miserable with us, that’s fine, and if we’re not drinking and you want to be miserable hiding inside somewhere with us, that’s fine too. But don’t go thinking either of us needs taking care of. We just need a friend.”

Even if Gwaine’s voice is quiet, his words soft and kind, Merlin still feels chastised, judged, and that wasn’t how he meant it at all. He can’t explain any of this, though, because Gareth is back, beaming and bright, and Gwaine seems to take this as a sign that this conversation is done.

X

Magic has its limits, Merlin has been told, by pretty much everyone he’s ever met who knows anything about it. There are some poisons it cannot cure, some wounds it will not heal, and some futures it cannot change.

This, though, it can do, and it will.

Gaius has seeds of all sorts in his supplies, some with medicinal properties all of their own, some that grow into plants of use to his remedies, and some for plants with no purpose at all beyond looking nice (“Sometimes,” Gaius told him when Merlin first asked why, “a thing of beauty is the closest thing to a cure a physician can manage”).

The honeysuckle seeds are the latter, existing purely because they are beautiful, and if Arthur was marrying a great princess, Merlin would grow her roses, or possibly diamonds, but he isn’t. Arthur has chosen Gwen, and roses are too heavy for her, the scent too rich and the flowers too complicated. Gwen is simpler than that, and all the better for it, and Merlin cannot burden her with gifts too difficult. There isn’t a lot he can give her, even less that Gwen would think to ask for, but this, Merlin can manage.

Gaius doesn’t begrudge him them; he cautions Merlin, certainly, but he accepts that on the day itself, with all the excitement of the king’s marriage, no one is likely to wonder how the queen comes by fresh flowers. As long as Merlin finds somewhere out of the way to grow them, they decide, somewhere safe and unobserved, there is no real risk to doing this.

He finds a stretch of castle wall that he’s never seen anyone close to, where the snow shows no trace of footsteps, then clears it himself, not a lot but enough that he can plant the seeds.

“Grow strong,” he murmurs, covering them carefully and placing his palm on top of the soil, feeding them all the love he has for Gwen and Arthur, all the magic he has in him. “Grow strong, and grow fast.”

X

By evening, Lancelot almost feels up to leaving his room. He still feels awful, just a little bit like death warmed up, head filled with fluff that’s just a little bit too painful in a dull, thudding way. He does not want to leave, not when outside is so much more likely to be _loud_ than his bedroom is, but Gwaine has always said the best thing for a hangover is a greasy, gross meal, and failing that any food at all. And, really, of everyone with whom Lancelot is acquainted, Gwaine almost certainly knows best when it comes to alcohol.

As it turns out, though, he does not have to go anywhere; just as he is mustering the energy to get out of bed, Gwaine walks into his room.

“Knock knock,” he says, grinning and dropping onto the bed beside him with enough force to make the mattress bounce and Lancelot’s stomach twist uncomfortably. It is not anything close to a surprise to Lancelot that he is here, not when Gwaine has never particularly shown any interest in respecting boundaries. What is a surprise, however, is that Merlin is following him.

“Thought you might like something to eat,” Gwaine continues, producing a slightly wrinkled apple from somewhere on his person, while Merlin seems to conjure a bowl of broth from nowhere; knowing him, that is far too possible, but Gwaine cares for him far too much to let it be the case, Lancelot hopes.

Still, he feels obliged to ask where the food came from, what with Arthur’s latest declaration about removing food from the dining hall; the ruling may have been created largely for Arthur to punish Gwaine, but it still stands, and Lancelot does not think anyone stupid enough to question it, even for him. “How _did_ you get that?”

“I distracted,” Gwaine says, complete with one of his utterly absurd hair tossing gestures. “Merlin makes an excellent thief.”

Merlin smiles, apparently taking this as the compliment Gwaine intends it to be rather than the less than positive career choice Lancelot would interpret it as. “I do my best,” he says, almost modestly, then sits on Lancelot’s other side with a great deal more caution than Gwaine displayed a moment ago. “Eat up,” he adds, leaning back against the headboard beside Lancelot. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Thank you,” Lancelot answers; putting aside the questionable wisdom of the pair of them procuring food for him, he is certainly grateful for it. It does not hurt that this is the most… amicable is not the right word, since Gwaine and Merlin have hardly been fighting since Gwaine returned, but certainly they have not presented anything this close to a united front in a long time.

The meal is, as Merlin said, more appetising than it looks and Lancelot, to his surprise, manages to finish all of it with ease. It settles his stomach slightly, dulls the ache in his skull, and when Gwaine suggests that they go for a walk, he almost considers it.

But a walk with Gwaine – outside the castle, in winter, at this time in the evening – is likely to have but one destination, and Lancelot drank enough last night to last him a lifetime.

“You go, though,” he adds, having dismissed the suggestion as civilly as he can. “Both of you, go. Have fun.”

Gwaine sits up straight, then leans around Lancelot to look at Merlin, and there is no doubt in Lancelot’s mind that they are communicating without words. Perhaps not literally, although that is probably possible when it comes to Merlin, but they are communicating regardless, and Lancelot wonders how Gwaine can know what Merlin is thinking and yet be utterly blind to how much Merlin loves him.

“Nah, mate,” Gwaine says, slumping back down again. “We’ll stick it out here.”

On Lancelot’s other side, Merlin smiles.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter features a brief and unsuccessful attempted assault. If you wish to avoid it, I'd recommend skipping the three short segments after Merlin leaves the tavern before tuning back in.

“Gwaine?” Lancelot whispers into the near-darkness of his room. Merlin lies to his right, breathing softly, evenly enough that Lancelot knows he is asleep, but Gwaine, huddled up on the floor by the fire, he is not so sure about. “Are you awake?”

“No,” Gwaine answers, just as quietly, and Lancelot cannot quite decide if he is trying to be amusing or if he just does not want to talk.

There is near-silence for a long moment, before Gwaine sighs with excessive drama. “We can talk if you want to talk,” he says, and from the sound of cloth moving against cloth Lancelot assumes he's sitting up. “Just sit down here. Don't wake him.”

Lancelot smothers a laugh at this, since Gwaine is often the loudest person in whatever room he chooses to occupy, but he joins him regardless, on the floor before the fire, banked but still warm. Gwaine offers him a blanket, anyway, or half of one, and they sit shoulder to shoulder.

“So,” Gwaine murmurs, when Lancelot does not speak first; he knows he ought to speak to Gwaine – his memory of the previous evening is foggy in the extreme, but he is almost certain he recalls an offer poorly disguised as a story – but now that he is in a position to do so without an audience, or at least not a conscious one, he is not quite sure where to begin. “I'm not the only one not sleeping, then.”

“No,” Lancelot agrees, “No, you are not. It is… Last night, were you serious?”

“Never knowingly,” Gwaine says, and the only reasonable reaction to that is for Lancelot to roll his eyes, even though the darkness prevents Gwaine from seeing it. “Bad for the health, that,” he continues. “Managed it maybe twice in my life, and both times it nearly killed me.”

“Am I supposed to laugh?” Lancelot asks, “Or do I just wait for you to answer the question?”

He does not so much hear Gwaine sigh as he feels it in the way his shoulders tense and then relax, his whole body folding in on itself. “Lance, mate, you know I love you almost as much as I do him,” he says, their shared blanket twitching against Lancelot's neck in such a way that Lancelot knows he is nodding towards Merlin, still asleep, “And you're more my brother than either 'Reth or Bertram is, although don't think I won't kill you if you tell them that.” He falls silent a moment, resting his head on Lancelot's shoulder, then sighs again. “Safe offer to make, though, wasn't it? Never a chance in hell you'd say yes.”

“And if I had?”

Lancelot knows he is pressing the matter more than he would most things, particularly with Gwaine, who seems to consider pigheadedness something to excel at rather than avoid. However, last night is not the first time Gwaine has spoken of such things, and yes, Lancelot is almost certain all previous suggestions of killing Arthur have been jokes, but that is hardly the point. Some things are not funny, some things not even Gwaine should think to make amusing, and this is one of them.

“Yeah, but you wouldn't.”

“Idiot,” Lancelot says, almost spits, shrugging free of the blanket and scrambling to his feet. “You cannot just assume that. Gwaine, you… _Idiot_.”

Gwaine's hand snakes out from under the blanket, wrapping around Lancelot's wrist and holding him there. “I would die before I hurt Merlin,” he says, “Which means I would die before allowing harm to come to Arthur. Think whatever else you want about me, but don't ever doubt that, you hear?”

“Go to sleep, Gwaine,” Lancelot instructs, lacking the energy to argue the matter when Gwaine will never concede that he has done something wrong. “Idiot,” he adds, almost affectionately, since he has long since ceased expecting anything else from Gwaine.

X

Lance is not an easy man to hate, not in the slightest, but when Gwaine wriggles free of his blankets in the morning and finds only Merlin in the room, he feels obliged to try.

"Morning," he says, when Merlin wakes up enough to blink at him sleepily just as he's trying to sneak out.

"What're you doing?" Merlin asks, punctuating it with a yawn.

"Erm," Gwaine says, looking for words that aren't _running away before you wake up and realise that this is the first time we've woken up in the same room since you left me_. Sure, that's probably the most accurate way to describe his actions, given that he's doing his very best to sneak quickly and quietly from Lancelot's room, his boots in one hand even if the floor feels like ice on his feet, but it being true is no reason at all to say it. "Breakfast?"

"Right," Merlin says, yawning again, and then realising what it is that's missing from Lancelot's bedroom. "Where's Lance?"

"Well, unless he's hiding under his bed, my best guess would be _not here_ ," Gwaine suggests, and it's slightly possible that he's hoping humour will distract Merlin from the next realisation, which is that right now no one is all that likely to interrupt them, making this a pretty much ideal location for that conversation Merlin keeps trying to have and Gwaine keeps trying to get away from.

Merlin sits, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and then just looks at Gwaine, the same look he gave Gwaine on so many mornings, sleepy and warm and promising. "Wait up," he says, and even though this isn't their – _Gwaine's_ – room, this isn't months ago, they're not them anymore, Gwaine still wants to obey, wants to crawl between the sheets with Merlin and stay there. "I'll walk with you."

"No can do," Gwaine says, and he's already moving towards the door before Merlin can argue with him. "Need to check on 'Reth on the way there, make sure he's awake."

And then he's out the door, not even able to bring himself to look back at Merlin as he goes.

X

Lancelot is one of the first down to breakfast, one of the first to leave, and the very first to enter the training cellar. Sleep is not a commodity he is finding it easy to come by, lately, and whilst he is quite sure his friends mean well, listening to Gwaine snore is not particularly conducive to sleep, nor is Merlin’s constant restlessness; quite how either of them managed to get any rest when they were together, Lancelot is not quite sure, but then he supposes rest was hardly the aim of their relationship. Regardless, he would rather them be there than not, of course, but right now he is awake, and no length of time spent lying still with his eyes closed is going to change that. It makes far more sense to get up and do something constructive, and perhaps in his absence Merlin and Gwaine may actually speak to each other about something more important than how best to steal food for absent friends at mealtimes.

Besides, Lancelot owes Arthur an apology, and the sooner he has it over and done with, the better.

Until such a moment as Arthur actually arrives, he resolves to practice, going through the same basic drills he has been teaching to Gareth and Merlin, drills that are second nature to him after so long of knowing them.

The others arrive a few at a time, every one of them greeting Lancelot with a smile and an inquiry as to his health, more kindness than he deserves when his illness yesterday was entirely of his own making.

Arthur, too, has much the same reaction to Lancelot's presence, the concern on his face turning to outright worry when Lancelot bows.

"I apologise," Lancelot says, straightening up. "For my absence yesterday. It will not happen again, sire."

"Not at all, Sir Lancelot," Arthur says, half a smile on his face. "Take all the time you need to recover."

"Thank you," Lancelot says, even though he knows he will not take any more time than he has already. He knows what Arthur is offering, and even if part of him would like to accept the still-standing offer to be absent for the wedding, he will not. He would rather see Guinevere happy, even if doing so will permanently close the book on the possibility of the pair of them being together. He would rather know for certain, by witnessing it himself.

Besides, if he stays here, at least he will not be alone.

X

Only the day after he plants them, Merlin's seeds are poking shoots above the ground, green and perfect, possibly the greenest things he's seen for months. It's hardly surprising, when the land is so dead, deciduous trees losing their leaves and fields swamped in mud when they aren't buried in snow, but there's something heartening about it anyway.

He waters them carefully, patiently, and if he follows that up with another burst of magic… Well, it's not like there's anyone around to see him do it.

He leaves them with a bubble of warmth, not large enough that anyone could accidentally detect it but enough to keep them alive and growing, then adds a charm to deter frost, and a whispered word of hope, making sure to wipe away his footprints as he trudges back through the snow to more inhabited areas of the city.

X

Lancelot is very close to regretting his decision to stay later on, when Gwaine follows him from the cellar to the hall for lunch, then aimlessly around the city for hours in the afternoon, talking endlessly about everything and nothing until Lancelot very much wishes to tell him to either shut up or go away.

Or, quite possibly, both.

"You know what we should do?" Gwaine asks, and Lancelot knows that this will be the last straw. "We should get a drink."

"That," Lancelot answers, knowing Gwaine can hear the crisp edge to his voice, "is the very last thing we should do. Why are you doing this?"

"Revenge, mate," Gwaine grins, the git. "And don't even think about sneaking out and leaving me alone with him again tomorrow morning, because you will regret it."

"Did something happen?" Lancelot asks, immediately feeling guilty for as good as abandoning them that morning, however much he hoped it would be good for the pair of them.

Gwaine looks at him, something of a frown on his face. "No," he says, sounding almost thoughtful. "I mean, you might want to change your sheets before you go to sleep, but other than that…”

Lancelot endures a long and distinctly unpleasant moment of horror, before it sinks in that this is a joke.

On the plus side, Gwaine seems to consider merely introducing the possibility to Lancelot’s mind more than enough vengeance.

X

Percival joins them that evening, walking with Lancelot and Gwaine from the dinner hall without a word. His silence isn't much of a surprise, not when Gwaine reckons that's pretty much Percival's default state, but that he's tagging along at all strikes him as a bit odd, at least until Gwaine remembers he and Lancelot arriving together at the ravine all those months ago.

Lancelot doesn't seem to notice Percival is there, or if does he doesn't seem to think anything of it, too lost in whatever deep (or, more likely, miserable) thoughts he's thinking to respond to Gwaine's attempts at conversation. He tries with Percival, too, but talking to Perce has always been a little bit like trying to talk to a rock; he's nice and all, and Gwaine doesn't doubt that he's more intelligent than he lets on, but he's quiet, and Gwaine has never liked quiet.

For the first time in months, he's relieved when Merlin shows up.

X

Merlin’s plants are knee height by the second day, beginning to show the buds of leaves and branches; Merlin places invisible strings of magic against the wall and murmurs encouragement to them. It feels far too stupid for him to ever mention it to anyone else, but Merlin is fairly sure he's convincing them of the need for support, and since both he and the plants know he can't exactly will a trellis into being here, the magic will have to do.

X

“This is horrendously awkward, I know, but let me say this anyway,” Elyan says, pushing a flask of wine into Lancelot's hands as soon as he opens the door. “She's my sister, and I'm glad she's happy, but I'm sorry that you're hurting because of it.”

“Yep,” Gwaine calls from his spot beside the fire, when he apparently works out that Lancelot has no idea how to answer this. “You're right, that is horrendously awkward. Lance, you letting him in or not?”

His decision seemingly made for him, Lancelot steps back to allow Elyan entrance.

“Right,” Gwaine says, beckoning them both over to join them. “Lance, pick your cards back up, and be thankful Perce is huge enough to have stopped me looking at them when you stood up. El, watch Merlin, 'cause there's no way he isn't cheating. We'll deal you in next hand.”

“Or you can leave now,” Percival suggests, as Merlin loudly proclaims his innocence and attempts to point out to Gwaine just how hypocritical he is being.

Lancelot laughs quietly; his dreams of a wife and children of his own may not be likely to come true, but he has his family and, in these moments, that is enough.

X

On the third day, the first flower blooms, and Merlin knows he has made the right decision.

X

“No,” Lancelot declares, when the somewhat hesitant knock on his door the next evening turns out to be not only Gareth but Montague along with him. “No, that is enough. You are not coming in.”

“Oh,” Gareth says, looking horribly upset by this. “Sorry, Sir Lancelot. We'll- I'll just be going.”

Lancelot hears a snuffling noise that can only be poorly muffled laughter coming from Gwaine, and puts an awful lot of effort into avoiding Montague's eyes for fear of going the same way. “No,” he says again, this time with the intention of explaining, “I did not mean that. We are going out.”

“Yeah,” Gwaine says, his amusement still audible in his voice. “About damn time, too.”

X

The tavern is bustling and busy, filled with out-of-towners come for Arthur's wedding. It's chaos, but the sort of chaos Gwaine loves; he's always been good with a crowd, and he's not above using personal connections to jump the queue, either.

He leaves the others lurking in hope of finding a table and elbows his way to the bar, grinning as he catches Bonnie's eye and holds up eight fingers. Bonnie nods, her mouth quirking up into a smile as she waves in the general direction of the slightly less crowded end of the bar.

Gwaine meets her there, pressing a few silvers into her hands and offering a smile in lieu of conversation – queue jump he may, but he's not going to keep her from serving the people he's pushed in front of – and then wades his way back through the mess of people to find the rest of them.

X

The first drink goes down easily, Merlin finds, but the second is a whole lot less simple. Gwaine's bought his round, he tells them all when they ask him to go back up again, and none of the rest of them have any sort of closeness with the bar-staff, which leaves pretty much one option: queuing, or as much of a queue as the crowd around the bar allows for.

Merlin feels the itch of eyes on him the whole time he's waiting, an uncomfortable feeling, almost like burning, not so different to the time Will decided the best midwinter gift he could possibly give Merlin was ground-up ginger root in his socks. He can't work out who it is – each time he turns around, there's far too many people, any one of whom could be watching him for any number of reasons, and he really doesn't know enough of them to guess at who – but someone is watching him.

And then he turns to return to the table, tray of drinks in hand, and makes eye contact with one of the many people he'd really rather not see at all.

Roger, it seems, has not only secured a table for himself, but has also managed to keep hold of a second chair, empty.

Merlin pulls his eyes away as quickly as possible, unwilling to even look at him, and there's a sick twist in his stomach that feels a little like fear, ridiculous as that is. This man is nothing to him, has neither authority nor power nor strength, and Merlin could squish him like an insect under his boot, if he was so inclined. This man is dust.

These thoughts are comforting, sort of, but they do nothing to stop Merlin stumbling over the chair Roger pushes out as he walks past. It's not a full-on face-plant, but it's inconvenient, and decisively scuppers Merlin's plan to act as though Roger doesn't exist.

"Ouch," Merlin says, wishing he wasn't carrying a tray so that he could rub his knee, and the bruise he knows will be there in the morning. "What was that for?"

"Sit," Roger answers, which is no answer at all. "You're going to have a drink with me."

Merlin blinks, just a tad confused, then laughs. "And why would I do that?"

Worryingly, Roger laughs as well, using his foot to nudge the empty chair further into Merlin path. "You're going to have a drink with me," he repeats, "Otherwise every single person in this room is going to find out what you are."

X

Merlin doesn't particularly want to agree, doesn't at all want to agree, but his options are more than a little limited. Just so much as looking at Roger sets his teeth on edge, but he has to.

"I'll be back," he promises, raising his tray of drinks with slightly unsteady hands.

"You will," Roger agrees. "And they won't be with you."

Merlin nods, since that he agrees with entirely. They'll want to come with him, if he tells them where he's going, if he tells them why, and Merlin will not have it. His secret endangers all of them enough already, and if it is to come out, Merlin will make damn sure he is the only person it hurts.

Roger pulls the chair back under the table, allowing Merlin to pass, and even when he's sure there should be people between them, obstructing Roger's gaze, Merlin can still feel his eyes on his back.

X

Merlin comes back to the table smiling like a fool, even if he's taken forever to bring them tankards that are halfway to being empty before any of them have a chance to drink. It's suspicious, Gwaine decides, but then that might just be his unhappiness about wasting ale, or possibly wishful thinking. Still, he's paying attention.

So when Merlin's smile brightens massively and he says, "So I've just remembered forgetting something," Gwaine is the first one to look at him funny. He's not the only one, maybe, but he's definitely the first.

"Anything important?" he asks, because he's not brave enough to ask _anything I can help with?_ Chances are, the answer will be no, or at least that is what Merlin will tell him, but just hearing it is going to be enough for Gwaine to decide whether any of them need to be worrying.

"No!" Merlin answers, the smile faltering, and his voice is much too loud and much too high, about as definite a _yes_ as Gwaine could have expected. "I mean," he says, clearing his throat and sounding just a bit more normal. "Thank you, Gwaine, but no. I can handle it."

"Sure about that?"

"Yes," Merlin confirms, and if Gwaine hadn't spent so much time and energy making Merlin the focus of his world, he wouldn't notice the little hitch to Merlin's breathing, the hesitation halfway through each exhale, the tension in his shoulders that would take an age to knead away.

Merlin is lying to him, and Gwaine doesn't know what the fuck to do about it, other than offer one last time. " _Call_ me if you change your mind," he says, because it's all he's got. He's never given Merlin permission to summon him before, and Merlin's got to know what Gwaine means because the smile drops off his face like a waterfall over a cliff, something like fear and maybe shock taking its place.

"Here," Merlin says, making what can only be called a valiant effort at regaining the smile as he pushes his tankard into Gwaine's hands. "Finish this for me. See you all tomorrow."

He walks off, each step he takes like that of a man on his way to the gallows, and Gwaine would bet every coin he's ever had possession of that the not-quite-right smile vanishes as soon as Merlin turns his back.

Still. Merlin has said no. Merlin has told him to stay. Merlin has made a very definite and mildly offensive attempt to distract Gwaine from following him by providing him with alcohol. It's not working, Gwaine knows damn well that Merlin is lying about not needing help – not wanting help? Not wanting _his_ help? – and the only sodding problem is what he's going to do about it. He can press the matter, go after Merlin, follow him like a duckling after its mother or a particularly pesky shadow, whether Merlin wants him there or not. He can.

Or he can grow up, let Merlin be a grown up, let Merlin go.

"You don't actually believe him, do you?" Montague asks, quiet, and Gwaine would like to think he's the only one that's paid any attention to his and Merlin's brief conversation, but he knows he's not that lucky.

He doesn't want to look up from his tankard to see who else is looking at him funny, though, doesn't want to know. Instead, he just shrugs, and drinks, because that's what Merlin wants him to do and it's far too late to start doing anything other than that. He's given Merlin the chance to accept his help, more than just the once, has made sure that Merlin knows the offer of help is still good if he decides he does need it, and Gwaine has nothing left to give him. "Not my business," he says, and the _anymore_ is audible for anyone who wants to hear it.

"And that's it?" Montague asks, slamming his hand over the top of Gwaine's tankard before he can get it as far as his mouth. "You're just going to let him walk off on his own to deal with whatever his _forgotten something_ is? You don't think that perhaps he's lying when he says he's got it under control?"

"I know he's lying, you git," Gwaine answers, shoving the hand away so that he can drink again. "If Merlin doesn't want _me_ to follow him, I'm not going to."

Montague stares at him in what might be exasperated bafflement or might just be him picking up on Gwaine's not accidental inflection. Merlin told him to stay, yeah, sure, and Gwaine'll stay, but he's not the only person at the table. He's not the only person who's worried about Merlin, and, for gods alone know what reason, he thinks he probably trusts Montague to act in his place.

"I don't understand you," Montague says. "I really don't."

From the way he doesn't so much storm off as saunter away into invisibility, Gwaine reckons Merlin isn't the only liar to recently leave their table.

X

"Right," Merlin says, sitting down in the seat Roger has apparently saved just for him and reaching for the drink Roger slides in his direction, thinking maybe a little liquid courage might make this easier. "Let's get this over with. I don't have any money you can blackmail me out of, I couldn't charm someone into falling in love with you even if I wanted to, nor could I make you strong, handsome, rich, entitled or otherwise any different to what you are now. Most importantly, I would rather stand buck naked on this table and sing a song as I _show_ everyone in this room exactly what I am than do anything to harm this kingdom."

He pauses, allowing the weasel with which he is communicating a moment to digest this, then sighs so hard it's almost painful. The conclusion of this conversation is inevitable, written in stone from the moment Merlin agreed to listen, because in listening he has given up any power he may have had in this matter. "That said," Merlin continues, because there is enough blood on his hands already, so many lives stolen that he'd rather not add another innocent – loathsome, perhaps, but not, to Merlin's knowledge, guilty of any real crime – man to the list, and now, so little time left before Arthur and Gwen's wedding, is not the time to force Arthur into making a public decision about magic. "That said, outside of these terms, name your price."

He expects some kind of argument and, truthfully, there's a little leeway to two of the four conditions. He doesn't have money, but he could probably produce some if he tried hard enough, or at least break into the vaults and steal something both harmless and valuable, and using magic to change someone's appearance is not beyond his capabilities. As for the rest, spells to bring about true love genuinely are impossible, so Merlin knows he won't have to worry about reconciling his conscience with the immorality of trying to force affection on someone, and there is no power on this earth capable of changing his refusal to harm Camelot.

He expects an argument. He gets a grin instead.

"Don't you want to know how I found out?"

"Not in the slightest," Merlin says. _I just want to get this over with_ , he thinks, but he hardly expects to get his way. However powerful he is, he's not in charge here; magic isn't everything, and knowledge will always be more.

Sure enough, Roger doesn't seem at all inclined to keep quiet, and the grin seems a little less victorious and a little more angry. "I followed you," he says, "For days, now, ever since your little lie about the knight who is not your lover."

"Right, well," Merlin says, when the pause after those words has gone on quite long enough, "As lovely as that is, can we move ahead to the part where you blackmail me, and then I can go back to my life and forget that you exist?"

"Do you not realise how this works, Merlin? I know something you don't want me to, and unless you start being very, very nice to me, everyone else is going to know it too."

Merlin manages to keep his shudder internal, but it's definitely there, and he knows any sensible person in this situation would be apologising right about now. He can't, though, can't fake it and certainly can't manage anything close to genuine regret, because the mere idea of saying sorry to this man makes him slightly nauseous. The closest he can get is staying silent and hoping that's enough.

For far too many moments, he thinks it won't be, and doesn't know whether to flee or fight, whether it's better to run and hope his absence is enough to keep Roger silent or to attack and hope no one realises he's using magic to do so. He doesn't have to decide, though, or at least doesn't have to decide yet, because eventually, Roger nods.

"I've been following you," he says again. "Just because you were lying about the knight – who, by the way, seems to be sleeping with just about everyone other than you, judging by the number of people visiting his room, or whose room he visits – it doesn't mean there isn't someone else. Imagine my surprise, when instead of finding some secret lover, I find a much more interesting secret. Tell me, Merlin, why would someone with your gift use it to grow flowers in Camelot?"

"They're for Gwen," Merlin says, when it becomes clear that this time silence and a lack of snide remarks will not be enough. "For the wedding. She deserves something beautiful."

"I see," Roger says, working out after a moment that this is all he's going to get from Merlin, all Merlin's willing to say about Gwen and his magic. "Well, since you don't seem inclined to converse any longer, shall we get down to business? Are those all your conditions?"

Merlin frowns, confused, because the tone and the disgustingly smug expression on Roger's face are enough that he knows he ought to come up with something else. Merlin is missing something, and the something he is missing is clearly the thing Roger most hopes to gain from this discussion. If only he could bloody well work out what it is.

"That's everything," Merlin agrees, even though he knows it's a mistake to do so. He can't take it back, though, or maybe he just won't, because it's his secret to protect and no one's fault but his that he's in this position.

"Good," Roger says, standing up, the look on his face that of a man who has just won a tourney where the prize is anything he wants, he just has to name it. "Shall we get out of here, then?"

"Erm," Merlin says, really hoping he doesn't understand what's going on here, but he has a terrible feeling he does. He drinks again, hoping it'll make things better but, really, it can't get any worse.

Roger smirks, leaning across the table and into Merlin's space, grasping the hand that isn't holding Merlin's tankard. "Anything outside of those conditions, you said," he crows, smug as anything. "And since you never said anything about you being one of the conditions, that's what I'm choosing."

It takes a moment for Merlin to remember how to speak, and when he does the only words he can think of aren't really what he should be saying, if he wants his secret to stay secret. "You're sick," he manages, sounding pretty nauseous himself. "You can't just… No, and you're mental if you ever thought I'd say anything else."

"I see," Roger says softly, dangerously. "I mean, if you're so sure. I suppose I'll start with your little band of red-cloaks, then." He doesn't sound like someone who's just been rejected, though, or someone about to take revenge on the person rejecting him, and Merlin really doesn't know what to make of it other than that he really wants his hand back, possibly enough to break fingers to get it. "Which one do you think will draw their sword first?" he continues, and Merlin would so dearly love to see his face if he said none of them would, or at least that it wouldn't be him they were drawing it against. "Will it be the one you made lie about bedding you, or one of the ones he seems to spend a lot of time alone with?"

If it weren't for the wording of that last question, Merlin thinks he could have let Roger do it. Maybe it would have caused a scene – a fake arrest and fake trial, Arthur making a declaration that the kingdom isn't ready for while Uther still lives, not to mention turning Arthur's wedding into even more of a diplomatic disaster than it already has the potential to be, but it's ultimately nothing more than a scene – or maybe one of his friends would have balls to deal with this the way Merlin knows he should, by silencing the threat. Still, neither of those outcomes would be all that terrible, not so terrible that Merlin couldn't live with the result of his actions. If it weren't for that last sentence, Merlin would say do it, and damn the consequences.

Because he's lied to Gwaine and made a liar of him, hurt him that first morning when he left him to wake up alone and probably every day since then, shown so many times how little he trusts Gwaine and how little he deserves his trust in return. All this and more, yes, but Merlin is damned if he'll put blood on Gwaine's hands just because he doesn't want it on his own.

"Wait," he says, because he can't kill this worm and he can't pass the problem on to his friends, leaving him with only one option. "I'll come with you," he continues, even if he'd rather not. He drains his drink dry, wishing for another one regardless of how the first leaves a dry bitterness in the back of his throat, and stands up.

X

It's not much, Merlin tells himself, not a lot, not really anything more than he's done before. The fact that he doesn't want this man means so little compared to what he's trying to avoid, how many people he's trying to protect. It's not impossible; all he has to do is close his eyes and let his mind be somewhere else.

Except.

It feels like an eternity ago, an eternity and more. Maybe it was, but it still counts, and Merlin told Gwaine that there were maybe two or three people that could make him do something like this, something he didn't want to. Gwaine isn't one of them, Merlin promised him; even if it ever occurred to him to try, he never could, Merlin wouldn't let him, and there is no force on earth that can make Merlin break that promise.

And if Merlin wouldn't let Gwaine take advantage of him like this, there's no way in hell he's just going to lie back and let this filthy cockroach of a man have his way.

"No," Merlin says in a ghost of a voice, but when there's a mouth over his own volume isn't all that easy to come by.

Roger pulls back just a tiny bit, looking at Merlin like he can't believe what he's hearing. "I beg your pardon?"

"No," he repeats, stronger this time, pushing Roger back and damn the consequences.

"I'm not sure you understand what's at stake here, Merlin," Roger says, low and angry and so venomous Merlin is almost surprised he's not dropping dead on the spot. "Unless you want everyone to know, I _own_ you."

"You don't," Merlin says, because actually, it doesn't matter. He trusts Arthur not to send him to his death and not to let Uther do so either, and if the citizens of Camelot finding out about his magic is the worst thing that will come of his refusal, then he's going to refuse, and if Roger doesn't listen he's going to make him, because whatever bloodshed there may be, it is not innocent. "I said no, and you can threaten to tell Gwaine and Arthur and Uther and even bloody Morgana, and my answer will still be no!"

In his mind, these words are shouted, brave and angry and loud, absolute and undeniable. In the world, they are quieter than a pin dropping, and they have almost as little impact on Roger.

"Shh," he says, knocking Merlin's hands away and crowding back in again. "Shh, Merlin," he says, tilting Merlin's head to one side like he's a rag doll, and yet Merlin doesn't have the strength to resist however much he wants to.

"I don't," Merlin manages, but the words sound like they're rolling through fog. "This… You… My drink?"

Roger's mouth quirks into a smirk against his neck, his hands pushing the jacket from Merlin's shoulders, and Merlin still can't stop him.

X

They're midway through a conversation about – what else? – the wedding, when Gwaine finds himself on his feet, every muscle in his body tauter than a bowstring, straining to be somewhere else, and it's not at all comforting to see he's not the only one, that the rest of them are joining him, even Leon who cuts off halfway through his sentence about the requirement for increased security due to the number of Camelot's not quite allies resident in the city right now.

"What's…?" someone begins, but there is precisely one word in Gwaine's brain and he doesn't have time for chatting about it.

"Merlin," he says, the only explanation there can possibly be, and then he runs.

X

The fog wins for a moment, except it has to be longer than that because when Merlin comes back to himself he's crushed face-first against the wall, belt, scarf and coat on the floor. His muscles feel like straw, his bones like water, and the only thing keeping him on his feet is the man pressed along his back, pinning him in place. There's magic bubbling under his skin, blistering him like fire but it's trapped there, trapped inside and he can't get it out.

Merlin tries to scream, he's not so proud that he wouldn't, but all that comes out of his mouth is a whimper, pathetic and almost silent. A hand is clamped over his mouth anyway, two fingers forcing their way inside even as Roger's other hand battles with the laces of Merlin's trousers, and all Merlin can do is clamp his teeth down, biting until he tastes blood and then hanging on.

"Stop that," Roger hisses, and Merlin _tries_ to get his arms to work, to claw himself free, but it's like they're not even his anymore, not either of them, and he might still have one of Roger's hands trapped in his mouth, coating his tongue in copper and hate, but the other one is free, tangling in Merlin's hair and slamming his head against the wall hard enough to have lights bursting in front of his eyes. "Shut up, you little bitch, and stop fighting me. Knowing what you are, did you really think I would leave this to chance?"

And then he freezes, instantly, and there's another voice, one Merlin never thought he'd be so pleased to hear.

"Yes," Montague says softly, and the part of Merlin's brain that is still working guesses he's pulling Roger back, away, because suddenly he's falling to the floor, nothing left to hold him up. "But, even knowing what he is, did you think any of us would?"

X

"Hey," Montague says, and Merlin figures he's missed more time because when he blinks the world back into focus Roger is crumpled on the floor and Montague is laying a knife down beside him, blood on the blade. "Merlin, it's fi- I've got you, Merlin. I won't let him hurt you, okay, I promise."

Words aren't really working for Merlin too well right now, though, either saying them or understanding them; all he can manage is, "Dead?" and it's half a question and half a desperate hope.

"Not yet. Just unconscious," Montague tells him. "Killing him is yours to do," he continues, and Merlin doesn't know if he should be upset or grateful. "Come on, let's get you tidied up a bit. The others'll be here soon."

That one takes a while, takes until Montague has wiped the blood from around Merlin's mouth and, hesitantly, awkwardly, ever so carefully helped Merlin back into his jacket, and, "Others?" Merlin slurs.

"I followed you from the inn," Montague says. "Trailed you most of the way through the castle, but… Shit, Merlin, I'm sorry. I should have been here sooner. I lost you about ten minutes ago, and then you… I just knew to come this way."

"Others?" Merlin asks again, because he's not sure but he still doesn't think that clears anything up.

"Don't worry, Merlin. Just know that it's fine."

_It's not_ , Merlin thinks, but he can't say it, not when Montague's just saved him from things far worse. _It's really not fine_.

As if to prove him right, Montague grunts and hunches over, visibly in pain.

Behind him is Roger, the same knife Montague dropped a few minutes ago in his hand, raised ready to plant it again and, "No," Merlin says, and he might not be strong enough to stand up, might be only inches from unconsciousness or insanity, but he isn't going to let Montague or himself get more hurt. "Drop it, now."

"Or what, Merlin?" Roger snarls. "He's not going to be able to help you for a few minutes, and I put enough stuff in your drink that you should be unconscious by now. There's certainly nothing _you_ can do to stop me."

Merlin's not harmless, though, and he certainly isn't unarmed, even if he looks it. "Not unconscious," he says, scraping together every drop of power he can manage, every ounce of strength he has. "Not unconscious. Don't need saving."

And then, for all that his spells tend not to be big on smoke and mirrors, flashing lights and eye-catching, attention-grabbing anything, this time there is a noise like thunder as all his energy leaves him and he forces the breath escaping his lungs into just one word, cementing his intentions into place.

And then the world is gone again.

X

There's no force today, nothing making Gwaine's feet walk this way or that, no pull he's trying to escape. There's not even anything guiding him, and he thinks that if he tried to go the wrong way there's probably not going to be anything stopping him. All there is is the knowledge that he has to be somewhere, that Merlin needs him there, and there's not a single part of him that wants to be anywhere else, not a single one of them that can keep up with him right now.

All there is is the running, and Merlin, and the terrible fear that he's going to be too late.

X

"Shit," Montague mutters, and Merlin manages to push away enough of the exhausted haze in his mind to hear footsteps, rapidly getting closer to them. Montague drops to his knees, pressing his hand against his side as he stares intently into Merlin's eyes, his own wide and cautious. "Merlin, I know you're not… I'm about to ask you to do something for me, and I need you to trust me, okay? I know this is a really shitty situation, but it's important that you do it, otherwise I wouldn't make you." He raises his other hand, the one not covering the wound on his side, like he wants to put it on Merlin's shoulder, his voice low, the words hurried and intense, and something about the silence that follows makes its way through Merlin's mental fog, enough that he realises this actually needs a response.

He nods – a little too complacent, a little too willing to concede, but if he doesn't he'll have to think, pull himself together, and right now it's easier just to fall apart and let someone else collect the pieces.

"Good man," Montague says, and if the situation wasn't what it is Merlin thinks it'd be accompanied by a grin. His hand twitches towards Merlin again, just once, then he says firmly, "Close your eyes."

Merlin has a moment of his brain saying this is a terrible idea, and that he shouldn't obey. He ignores it, though, because obedience is still far simpler and he's about as certain as he can be that Montague won't hurt him.

Through the haze of confusion, the messy _oh gods_ _what just happened?_ coiling in his mind and the heady rush of his magic still shimmering under his skin, he hears the footsteps draw even closer. He feels the warmth of Montague's body retreat and listens to the rustle of his clothes as he presumably stands up.

The next sound is unmistakably that of a blade being drawn, and for a moment Merlin feels fear flood back through him. Equally unmistakable, however, is the sound of metal on stone, the blade just unsheathed being laid on the floor, and a shaky, half-laughed breath of relief.

"You can open them again now," Montague says, less panicked than before. "It's just Gwaine."

Merlin has never been more glad to see anyone in his life.

X

The scene Gwaine walks in on is infinitely awful, and yet he comprehends it instantly: Montague holding a sword, Merlin cowering against a wall behind him, eyes closed, a pile of clothes between them despite the fact that both are fully dressed.

And then Montague lays the blade at Gwaine's feet, relaxing completely before turning his back to Gwaine, turning back to Merlin. "You can open them again now," he says. "It's just Gwaine."

Merlin blinks, looking distant and dark, his eyes completely gold, pupils and whites included, simultaneously eerie and awe-inspiring. "Gwaine," he says, sounding halfway broken, halfway not there.

"Merlin," Gwaine answers, and he has enough sense not to ask if he's okay. "Tell me the guy's dead?"

Montague casts an eye at the clothes, which, on second glance, seem to be wriggling slightly. "Not quite," he answers, but doesn't seem inclined to say anything more, at least not about that. "I wasn't here as quickly as I should have been, but it was in time."

Gwaine looks back at Merlin, at his eyes, and has to wonder, but he's not going to say it. "Come on, love," he says, and for the first time it doesn't feel wrong to say it, not when hearing it might actually help Merlin some. "Let's get you somewhere safe." He reaches down to Merlin, waits for him to take his hand, then helps him to his feet, slinging an arm around his waist to keep him upright.

"Before you do," Montague says, offering Merlin a hand as well, waiting just like Gwaine did before wrapping an arm around him from Merlin's other side, "What do we do about that?"

He points a foot towards the still moving clothing, to what is unmistakably a rat wriggling its way to the top of the pile.

Gwaine raises an eyebrow at him, then to Merlin, eyes still wide and shining as he looks back at Gwaine. "I've got an idea," he says, and it's without a drop of regret that Gwaine brings his boot down on the rat's skull.

X

Gwaine takes Merlin to his room, can't imagine for a second taking him anywhere else. Somewhere safe, he promised, after all, and gods know he might not be the only one who'd protect Merlin with his life but right now he's not sure he'd trust anyone else to do so. Merlin doesn't protest, anyway, and Gwaine is fairly sure that even drugged and bruised like he is, Merlin would object if he wanted to. Montague stays quiet, too, no mention of the very obvious fact of Merlin's magic, but then maybe Gwaine isn't all that surprised, not when he'd as good as confessed to knowing before now.

Montague stays too quiet, actually, even with things being what they are, because Gwaine would figure him for the type to go for distraction through chatter, same as Gwaine would with anyone else. It's only when they're back, though, a closed door between the three of them and the rest of the world, that Gwaine realises why.

Merlin still looks awful, abstracted, so much like he doesn't belong in Gwaine's small, ordinary room that Gwaine is almost awed he's still there. He's better than he was, though (Gwaine thinks he can see white in his eyes again, even if the pupils are still absent), a little less lost now, and when he speaks it's in full sentences, not just words, even if they still sound drunk.

"Are you okay?" he asks, which is just bloody ridiculous, isn't it, except it's not Gwaine he's facing.

"Just a scratch," Montague says, though when Gwaine finally manages to tear his gaze from Merlin he looks like whatever it is hurts quite a lot more than a scratch would. "Would have been a lot worse if you hadn't dealt with him."

Merlin half-smiles at that, wan and weak and yet _Merlin_ , unbroken, and it's enough that Gwaine manages to get to his feet again, no longer kneeling at Merlin's side. "I'll get you something for it," he says. "And for you as well, Merlin," and Gwaine hates that he has to stop himself reaching to examine the lump he can see forming on the side of Merlin's head, carries on talking to keep himself from dwelling. "Clean up, too, because discarded clothing is odd enough without a splatted rat in the mix, and… And the others will need fending off somehow, because it wasn't just me you called, and-"

"Gwaine," Merlin says, cutting through all of it, Gwaine's voice out loud and all the ones inside him, shouting to get out. "It's not your fault."

Gwaine only manages to stare at him, blinded by the sincerity on Merlin's face and the last dregs of gold still clinging to his eyes, and, "I should have followed you," is all he can say before realising that, actually, he has to be somewhere else.

"Here," he says, unhooking the piece of string holding his key from around his neck. "Gareth's got one, but I'll get it from him when I find him." Merlin doesn't take it from him, though, and Gwaine can't exactly push it into his hands, so he just gives the key to Montague instead. "Lock up behind me," he orders, and then he's gone.

X

Lancelot honestly had no idea Gwaine could run that fast, but then he imagines it is probably a matter of incentive, and if it was Guinevere who had told him she suddenly had something to do, looking worried and awful and smiling as insincerely as humanly possible, Guinevere who had refused his help only to urgently require it later, Lancelot thinks he would probably be running rather quickly as well.

Still, Gwaine is out of the tavern before any of them have really worked out what is going on, and then by the time they make it out the door, Leon pausing to assure the other patrons that there is nothing to worry about, Gwaine is well out of sight.

"Which way?" Elyan asks, pausing in the middle of the street, and only then does it occur to Lancelot that he doesn't actually know.

"The citadel," Gareth says, and if it were not for the panic in his gut Lancelot would try persuade him to go back. It is what Gwaine would want him to do, probably, keep his brother safe from harm, but Lancelot is terribly aware that they may need all the help they can get, and that wasting time on an argument he may not win is an even worse idea than trying to rid them of an extra man. "Gwaine would have waited for us if it wasn't somewhere he was familiar with."

From the way Leon looks at him, Lancelot is certain he is not the only one who doubts this – where Merlin is concerned, Gwaine is far from predictable – but they have precious little to go on, and somehow heading into the castle feels more correct than heading away from it.

Gwaine has described, or tried to, this hold Merlin can take over him, controlling his limbs like they are his own, moving him this way or that as suits his wishes. Either he exaggerates greatly, Lancelot thinks as they make their way inside at a swift jog, or this is something different. The first seems ultimately more likely – it is _Gwaine_ , after all, not to mention the fact that Gwaine was awfully certain it is Merlin doing this, which hardly makes sense if the nature of the summons is different – but it feels wrong, and right now all Lancelot has to go on is a feeling.

He has always doubted his gut, shunned all those irrational, illogical instincts, but the first time they have to choose between left and right, Lancelot lets his feet make the decision.

They go right.

X

Rationally, the clean up should be more important. Neither Merlin nor Montague has died of their injuries yet, and neither of them is likely to do so any time in the immediate future; collecting bandages and whatever else is not the most urgent thing to be doing, not when the three of them are, in essence, trying to cover up a murder tonight. Not that it's not completely justified, what they've done, and Arthur isn't dumb enough to disagree with that, but if questions get asked explanations are going to be needed before they're off the hook, and Merlin might not want him to give them.

So, from a practical standpoint, tidying up whatever evidence Gwaine can find of what's happened should be his priority, but it isn't. Merlin's hurt, and even if Gwaine isn't going to be able to fix it, nothing comes before that.

Gaius is still awake when he gets there, the old man sitting on one of those uncomfortably low benches, staring at the door like he's expecting someone to walk through it any second. His shoulders sag when he sees it's Gwaine and that he's alone, visible relief decorating his face.

"You wouldn't leave him if he was seriously hurt, would you?" Gaius says, and it hadn't really occurred to Gwaine to wonder who else might have felt Merlin's call, but now he definitely has cause to, and maybe another thing to clear up.

"Not for a second," Gwaine answers, even if it doesn't need saying. "Just a few scratches and bruises," he explains, because even though that's ignoring what might be the worst of the damage, it's not exactly going to be something any of them can repair with any ease. "Better to be safe than sorry, though."

"I quite agree, my boy," Gaius says, which is probably about as much affection as Gwaine has ever gotten from him. He hands over a bag, presumably full of supplies. "There was no chance I'd reach him before any of you did," he explains. "My time was better spent readying whatever you might need, just in case."

"Thank you," Gwaine says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. "I'll bring him by in the morning."

Gaius nods at him, for once smiling like Gwaine is a favoured grandson rather than someone he merely tolerates because of Merlin. "Thank you," he echoes, then ushers Gwaine out of the door.

X

Merlin is cold, and shaken, and the whole world feels fucked up, but mostly he's just tired. Really, really tired.

"Hey," Montague says, and the words sound like they're being dragged through treacle, or maybe that's just Merlin. "Hey," he repeats, pulling himself from his chair and kneeling in front of Merlin, staring up into his eyes. "Merlin, look at me."

Merlin tries, he really does, but he's cold and tired and if he sleeps things might go back to normal again.

"No," Montague says, sharper, and one of his hands presses hard against Merlin's leg for a second, just long enough to jolt him fully into wakefulness. "You cracked your head pretty hard, Merlin. I don't want you sleeping."

"No," Merlin agrees, but it's a struggle, and his tongue feels like a victim of the same thickness as hit the air a moment ago. "No, not sleeping."

Montague smiles vaguely, shuffling up from his knees with a pained gasp and slumping back into his seat. "Right, so, we find something to talk about."

"Like what?" Merlin asks, and if Arthur was about he'd be laughing at Merlin needing someone to suggest a topic of conversation to him.

"Well, I suppose we could start with you turning a man into a rat?"

"Oh," Merlin says, and suddenly he doesn't feel all that tired.

X

Lancelot knows when they reach the place they ought to be, even if there is no sign of Merlin or Gwaine there. Arthur, yes, looking confused and more concerned than he will ever admit to being about Merlin's welfare, but not the people Lancelot is expecting to see, and it is both worrisome and a relief. This is where Merlin wanted them, and since the panic that had them all running has faded, he clearly does not want them to go somewhere else; the fact that Merlin and Gwaine are not here shows that whatever the problem was, it has been dealt with, but there still remains the question of where they are, and why the solution to the problem seems to have involved nudity, a bloody knife, and an unorthodox means of pest control.

"Where do we go from here?" Leon asks, and Lancelot does not quite know how to answer. It all depends on the owner of the blood on the knife, he thinks: if it is Merlin's, they go to Gaius'; if it is not, they go to Gwaine's. Sadly, without asking either Gwaine or Merlin, they cannot find this out, thus leaving them with something of a quandary.

"We wait," Arthur says, somehow managing to make this sound like a reasonable course of action, despite the fact that he was clearly abed when Merlin's summons reached him, and whilst he picked up a blade before leaving his room, he did not take the time to put on boots or a shirt. "Gwaine will return here soon enough."

Looking at the mess, Lancelot does not disagree.

X

Gwaine rounds a corner, bag still over his shoulder, and finds exactly what he'd been hoping to avoid. And Arthur, as well, which just makes things even worse.

Sadly, the fucker notices him before he can sneak off back to Merlin, so he’s stuck trying to explain without explaining anything.

"It's fine," he says before anyone can ask. "The problem's been taken care of."

"What problem?" Lancelot asks.

"I can't tell you that."

"And how did you take care of it?" Arthur adds, sounding really rather menacing, despite the fact that Gwaine could stamp on his toes and leave him limping for days.

"Yeah, can't tell you that either." Gwaine sighs, because Lance might be willing to let not telling fly but there's no way Arthur will. "Look, I don't know what Merlin's going to want you all to know, so I'm leaving it to him. But he's fine, and there is nothing to be worried about."

"That's Gaius' bag," Arthur points out, being spectacularly observant (for him, anyway), although Gwaine is really just glad the sword in Arthur's hand isn't jabbing him in the ribs. "If there's no problem, why do you have that?"

"Because Montague got jumped by the arsehole Merlin was having difficulty with," Gwaine snaps. "You can talk to Merlin tomorrow, Arthur. It can wait until then."

Arthur stares at him, the expression on his face stuck somewhere between indignation and worry, but eventually he nods, even if he looks bloody unhappy about doing so. "Go, then," he says, like Gwaine needs his permission. "We will tidy up here."

It is only with great effort that Gwaine manages to stay quiet about that, because there's no way in hell he thinks Arthur's going to involve himself in whatever clean-up needs to be done. He's not going to argue it, though, not when he's been gone more than long enough already. "Thank you," he says, because being polite to the king isn't going to hurt, and he knows it's what Merlin would want of him. "Gareth, I need your key. Find somewhere else to kip tonight."

"But-" Gareth starts, because gods forbid the kid ever knows when to leave something alone.

"No," Gwaine says. "No buts. Give me your key, and find somewhere else to stay."

It takes a moment, but Gwaine wins this one too.

X

He stops the first servant he sees walking through the castle and demands a bath, offering his best _do what the fuck I tell you to_ glare when the guy looks ready to object.

"I don't give a shit what time it is," Gwaine says, knowing he's being way more of a dick than he usually would, knowing he has no right to treat someone he doesn't know like this, but he really can't be bothered right now. "Have a bath brought up to my room. _Now_. And don't go in."

X

"You know," Merlin says, when words decide they want to come back again. "You know about my..."

"I know you have magic, yeah," Montague answers, and Merlin wonders that he can still somehow be shocked by hearing those words when his whole world seems to have gone to hell and back today.

"Gwaine knows you know, doesn't he?" Merlin asks next, even though he's pretty sure about the answer. Gwaine wasn't drugged, wasn't loopy with forcing his magic through the thing keeping him out of it, wasn't halfway to being unconscious and- Gwaine had everything to work with, while Merlin is barely functioning at all. Of course Gwaine knows.

"He does," Montague confirms, looking almost amused. "And you aren't the slightest bit concerned, are you, Merlin?"

"He wouldn't have left you alive if you were a threat," Merlin's says, and there's no doubt to it whatsoever.

Montague laughs, genuinely amused, and if Merlin was feeling a little better he might join in. "That's a hell of a lot of trust to put in someone."

"He deserves it," Merlin says, and, again, there's no room for doubt.

X

Gwaine shoves past the guy waiting outside his room with a large tub and a steaming bucket, then knocks on his door, even if it is his and he's carrying a key. "It's me," he says, leaving it a moment before putting his key in the lock. "I'm coming in," he tells Merlin, loud enough that he'll hear it through the door, then turns back to the guy, who is still looking at him like he's mental.

"Go get the next bucket," he orders. "I'll take this from here."

The look only intensifies, but there's no argument, and that's really all Gwaine can ask for.

Merlin looks better, now, as Gwaine drags the bathtub in, then makes another trip for the bucket. Not well, not completely fine, but better than he was, and Gwaine still feels fucking lost when it comes to speaking to him.

It's easier not to, he decides, instead just ordering Montague to take his shirt off and attempting to patch up the wounds he has a chance of fixing.

X

Merlin climbs into the bath with a desperation that feels almost inhuman, and he really couldn't care less that there are two other people in the room. Gwaine has seen it all before, anyway, and Montague is far more occupied with Gwaine's attempts at triage to notice anything he shouldn't be seeing. Besides, really, he just wants to feel clean.

He soaks for ages, a spark of magic reheating the water each time the temperature drops below scalding, drifting idly. It's probably how a cloud feels, he thinks, abstract and empty, nothing to hold it in place, nothing to hold it down, ready to blow away as soon as the wind calls it to.

Merlin isn't free, though, isn't untethered, has things keeping him here, close and safe and grounded. He's not going anywhere, not tonight, and he doesn't really want to.

"Right," Gwaine says, voice soft, but it drags Merlin down fully, even if it's not him he's talking to. "You're done. You want to stay here, or are you leaving?"

Merlin doesn't turn to look, mostly because the water is hot enough to make him a little bit dizzy. It doesn't matter, though, because Montague half-laughs, and the pained noise he makes is probably him shrugging his shirt back over his head.

"I'm thinking sleeping on the floor isn't a great idea," Montague says, then pauses for a moment. "And it looks like your bed is going to be full. I appreciate the offer, though."

"Welcome," Gwaine says, in that gruff way Merlin knows means embarrassment. "We'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight," Merlin adds softly, hunching his shoulders and ducking further down under the water.

"'Night, Merlin," Montague answers, just as quiet. "Shout if you need me, or whatever."

X

"Merlin?" Gwaine asks, after Montague is gone and the door's locked again behind him. "How's your head?"

"Hurts," Merlin says. "Will you look at it?"

Gwaine falters for a second, what with that really not being what he expected, then approaches slowly, not making any effort to muffle his footsteps or anything like that, because being quiet right now probably isn't for the best. "You sure you want me to?" he asks, hovering just out of arm's' reach.

Merlin turns halfway towards him, stopping before Gwaine can see his eyes, then turns back again, his breath not even changing rhythm. "I'm not going to break if you touch me, Gwaine."

Gwaine nods, though Merlin can't see him, and collects a cup before kneeling by the bathtub.

"You're you," Merlin continues, tipping his head back and, true to his word, not flinching when Gwaine rests one hand on his forehead, shielding his eyes, and uses the other to pour water over his head, trying not to wince himself when some of it runs away a pinkish red. "I could never be afraid of you."

Gwaine smiles, even if he maybe shouldn't. "Good to know," he says, adding another cup of water, then another, before combing as carefully as he can through Merlin's hair over the bump.

It's clotted already, not much blood for a head wound, but it's still more than there ever should be, enough to make Gwaine feel sick like no wound of his own ever has.

"Merlin," he manages, even though it hurts and he feels like he's sinking, lost. "I'm so sorry, Merlin. I'm sorry."

"No," Merlin says, reaching up and grasping blindly for Gwaine's hand, searching until Gwaine feels he has to give him it and then holding on so hard that it hurts. "Don't you ever apologise for this, Gwaine. _Ever_. You're not responsible."

Gwaine feels sick, sick from touching him and talking to him and just being in the same room, because whatever bullshit Merlin is spouting, it is his fault. "I knew something was wrong," he says. "I knew you lied to me, I knew it wasn't for a good reason, and I listened anyway."

"I wanted you to," Merlin answers, his fingers twisting between Gwaine's, twisting and tangling and refusing to let go. "He knew about my magic, and I wanted you a long way from that."

That doesn't change anything, Gwaine wants to say, but he doesn't. He can't. "I should have followed you," he says, and it's still just as true as when he said it earlier.

Merlin crumples back against him, leaning his head down onto Gwaine's shoulder and clinging, fingers pressing into Gwaine's hand in a way that's got to be leaving bruises, but there's no way Gwaine is going to stop him. "I told you to stay," he says, solid and determined, as stuck on self-blame as Gwaine is. "I told you to."

Gwaine doesn't know what to say or what to do, barely even knows how to breathe with Merlin here, his wet hair soaking Gwaine's shirt, bruising more than his skin. "Love," he says, wrapping his arm around Merlin and resting his forehead on Merlin's bare shoulder. "Oh, Merlin, love."

X

Eventually, Merlin makes a move to extract himself, and Gwaine is never going to stop him. He just lets him go, moving back and standing slowly, knees feeling creaky and old, then finds something for Merlin to wear to sleep in.

"Here," he says, though the trousers will be too short and the shirt too loose, but it's better than nothing, and he reckons Merlin probably wants to make his way back through the castle at this hour just as little as Gwaine wants him to go.

"Thank you," Merlin says as he dresses, then again as he drinks the wine Gwaine has warmed for him by the fire, and a third time as he sits on the edge of Gwaine's bed.

Gwaine wants to tell him not to, that he doesn't deserve it, but they've had that conversation already and it's not going to go any differently now.

X

"Sleep, love," Gwaine says, as Merlin curls up in his bed. "You can wake me if you need me."

"I know," Merlin answers, feeling warm and safe and loved.

Outside, the bell signalling the midnight change of the watch sounds. _Three days to go_.

X

"He knew about my magic," Merlin says, staring at the ceiling above him, looking for patterns in the shadows cast by the candle Gwaine has yet to let burn out, even if it feels like an eternity since he said goodnight. "He threatened to tell you all if I didn't do what he wanted."

Gwaine doesn't say anything, is too kind to say anything, but Merlin can hear what he's thinking so clearly it might as well be voiced aloud. "I know you know," he continues softly, "I know it wasn't much of a threat, but… It's their wedding. I didn't want changing laws to get in the way of that, and I didn't want him to go to one of you. I didn't want you to have to kill him just because I wouldn't."

Merlin falls silent, stretching his hand out across the sheets, searching for Gwaine's, for something to hold on to; Gwaine is there almost immediately, his hand warm in Merlin's grip, as familiar as the dawn. "I was going to let him," he says eventually, and he can feel Gwaine's pain like it's his own, like that sharp intake of air is going into his own lungs and not Gwaine's. "I would have, if it wasn't for you. Do you remember, after we were first together, I told you there was almost no one alive who could make me do something I didn't want to? No more than three people, I said, and if you aren't one of them then there's no way in hell he was, either. I stopped cooperating, and that's when he… This." Merlin lifts his free hand, waving it in the general direction of his head and the exceptionally large bump that's growing there.

"I'm glad I killed him," Gwaine says, and there are too many emotions in his voice for Merlin to even begin listing them. "I'm glad, and I'd do it a million times more if that's what it took to keep you safe."

"I'd never ask you to," Merlin says, because as (unsettlingly) comforting as that is to hear, he didn't start telling this to make Gwaine reassure him.

"I know, love," Gwaine says, resolute, a tree bending before a storm but not breaking, never, ever breaking. "I'd do it anyway."

X

Merlin loses count of how many times he wakes before dawn, but it’s a lot. Gwaine is there each time, though, perched on the edge of the chair closest to the bed, his hand not touching Merlin's, but close enough that Merlin could reach out and grab him if he wanted to, and Merlin doesn’t know if it’s because he’s incapable of waking quietly or if Gwaine just isn’t sleeping.

It’s comforting, though, even if it shouldn’t be.

It’s safe, as Gwaine will always be.

X

Since they brought Gwaine back to the city, it is not unusual for Lancelot to hear a rather loud argument as he approaches his door in the morning; Gwaine and Gareth have a tendency to squabble in a way that makes Lancelot deeply grateful never to have had siblings by blood. As such, he would not usually be alarmed to find his journey to Gwaine’s room met by raised voices.

Today, however, when Lancelot knows that Gareth is currently somewhere between his own room and the dining hall, it is a little unexpected.

The words are indecipherable through a closed door, but at some point over the past year, Lancelot has lost all qualms he may once have had about interrupting arguments and entering rooms uninvited, at least on occasions when he can be fairly sure the occupants are fully dressed.

“No,” Merlin says, as Lancelot walks into the room and clears his throat, possibly a little quieter than he ought to but still loud enough, since Merlin adds, “Morning, Lancelot,” before turning back to Gwaine. “I’m not staying here all day, and you are not bringing me meals.”

“Merlin,” Gwaine says, ignoring Lancelot completely and sounding exasperated in a way that almost certainly means he is not in the right. “Be reasonable, please.”

The expression on Merlin’s face can only be considered incredulous, and when he speaks it is bordering on shrill. “You’re speaking to me about reason, Gwaine? You? Sir It’s-All-My-Fault, and never mind how irrational you’re being?”

Gwaine rounds on Merlin, his expression wild, raking a hand through his hair over and over again. “It is my fault!” Gwaine as good as shouts, spitting mad, well within Merlin’s space, and Lancelot thinks this is probably a good time to intervene.

“That is _enough_ ,” he says, stepping between the two of them even if there is barely any space to do so. “Back up, both of you.”

For a long moment, the two of them just glare at each other, and Lancelot wonders if maybe it is all a little futile, if maybe this will never work, no matter how much the pair of them love each other. They do both concede, though, not giving much but enough. Enough. “Now, if one of you could explain, please, I am sure this can be resolved without an argument loud enough to bring the whole castle running.”

The glaring match resumes again, continuing to the point where Lancelot is putting genuine consideration into the merits of a strategic retreat, allowing the pair of them to argue it out without a chaperone, but eventually, Merlin gives.

“Gwaine wants me to stay here,” he says, his gaze not moving from Gwaine’s the entire time he speaks. “He wants to lock me up in here while he runs around fetching all my meals and taking care of my duties.”

Lancelot does not have the chance to ask Gwaine for his side of the explanation, so eager is he to give it. “That’s not true, Merlin,” Gwaine says, starting out so firm only to end quavering, wavering, unsure. “I only want you _safe_.”

“It’s broad daylight,” Merlin answers, and without knowing it Lancelot has found himself locked out of the conversation again, the two of them just stepping aside to continue arguing around him. “There’re people everywhere. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“There were people everywhere last night! The tavern was heaving when you left, and the whole lot of us still ended up racing through the city after you!”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry I interrupted your evening! Next time, I’ll make sure to leave you behind!”

Gwaine physically recoils from this. Lancelot thinks he could not actually look any more hurt if Merlin had hit him, and there is long moment where he thinks this may well be it, the two of them over and done with forever, and he does not know what to say to stop it. He does not know how to calm the situation down, how to remind Merlin and Gwaine who they want to be.

Fortunately, they do, since the pair of them stare at each other for a moment, a long moment, only to crumple in on themselves.

“I’m sorry,” they both say, almost at once, words tumbling over each other as they try to explain.

“I didn’t mean that,” Merlin says, while Gwaine launches in there with, “Of course you have to call me.”

“I was just-”

“I only meant that-”

“It wasn’t-”

“I don’t-”

“It’s okay,” Merlin finishes, and by this point he and Gwaine are back in each other’s space again. “I know.”

“Right,” Lancelot says, when several attempts at clearing his throat have failed miserably at breaking their absurdly tense stare. “So, are we going to breakfast?”

He waits for Merlin to say yes, so certain that he will, but he is wrong; Merlin looks to Gwaine, tilting his head, clearly passing the decision over. After the argument the two of them have just had, it barely makes sense, but then the pair of them never do, do they?

“Come on, then,” Gwaine says, offering an exaggerated eye roll before stepping back, away from Merlin and towards the door. “Breakfast it is.”

X

Arthur is pacing when Merlin finally manages to shake his escort long enough to get to where he should be at this time in the morning, the escort that has only grown since he and Gwaine and Lancelot reached the mess hall, the escort that followed him down to see Gaius and stood by awkwardly as Merlin hid himself inside his foster-father's arms and tried not to fall apart again.

Arthur is pacing, there’s a shattered plate on the floor by the door, and Merlin sort of wishes he’d let Gwaine come with him like he wanted to.

“Merlin!” Arthur says, rounding on him with terrifying urgency and excessive volume. “About damn time! I’ve been waiting for- for you for…”

He falters, sounding a whole lot less angry than he did at the start of that sentence, and Merlin doesn’t get it until Arthur takes one step towards him, stops dangerously quickly when Merlin retreats, and then suddenly it makes perfect sense.

“Gwaine didn’t tell me he saw you last night.”

Arthur smiles, dry as dust and just as unamused, and steps a little closer. “I assumed as much, yes.”

“It was…” Merlin says. “I’m…” he continues, only he doesn’t know whether he wants to finish that sentence with _okay_ or _sorry_ , isn’t really all that sure if either option is true, and decides that, actually, it’s better not to talk of it at all. “I take it you’ve had breakfast already.”

“I have,” Arthur answers, managing to look both relieved at Merlin’s avoidance of the subject and exasperated by it. “You’re not going to tell me why we all ended up in that hallway, are you?”

“I did something stupid,” Merlin says, because that about covers it. “It’s dealt with.”

“Are you quite sure?” Arthur asks. “If you’re in any danger, it can be solved.”

Merlin smiles, because in the face of Arthur’s awkward sincerity, there’s little else he can do. He’s beautiful, Merlin’s king, even when he’s being his arrogant and obnoxious self, but this, these horribly stilted moments of humanity that Arthur will shake off with a laugh and an affectionate punch to the shoulder, this is when Merlin loves him best. “Thank you,” he says, and likes to think his own sincerity sits a little more natural on him. “Gwaine took care of it, though.”

Arthur stares at him, assessing in a way that feels sort of ruthless and sort of just Arthur. “If you’re sure,” he says eventually. “You will tell me if there’s anything I can do. That is not an offer.”

“I’ll tell you,” Merlin agrees, then decides it’s time to try for the major subject change again. “Now, how're your vows going, sire?”

It's only due to an awful lot of practice that Merlin manages to duck the goblet hurled towards his head with great force.

X

In light of what happened the last time they went out, Lancelot opts to stay in his room this evening, fairly sure at least someone will show up there soon enough. He is not expecting it to be Gwaine, of course, because Gwaine has spent most of the day lurking outside whatever room Merlin is currently in, making up half-hearted excuses to explain his presence whenever someone questions him; at the moment, Merlin ought to be with Arthur, which means Gwaine is probably standing in an alcove no more than a few yards away from the king's chambers, pretending to be invisible and glowering at anyone who dares penetrate his cunning disguise.

He is not expecting Gwaine, not for hours, if at all, but Gwaine is who he gets, tapping at the door with uncharacteristic hesitance.

"Where is Merlin?" Lancelot asks, before he can think better of it; if Gwaine is unexpected, Gwaine unaccompanied is nothing short of baffling.

"Arthur sent him off early," Gwaine explains, sitting himself by the fireplace and holding his hands towards the flame. "Walked him down to see Gaius, think he's planning on staying there tonight. Gaius is worried, still."

"He would hardly be the only one," Lancelot says, his tone slightly drier than he intends it to be, and it is only once he is seated himself that he realises how much like a request for information it sounds. "Sorry," he adds, his gaze on the flames before them. "I do not expect you to tell me what happened."

He senses more than sees Gwaine's head shake, but it is not until Gwaine speaks, voice fierce with regret, that Lancelot turns his head to look at him. "'S'okay," he says, though both hands are balled into fists so tight that his knuckles seem about ready to break through the skin. "It's… The creep Merlin was talking to, first night we got back here, he… He's been following him, I guess, 'cause he knew about the magic, threatened to turn Merlin in if he didn't leave with him yesterday, and Merlin… Merlin went with him, rather than risking buggering up Arthur’s special day or letting one of us fix things.”

He stops, looking so, so weary, and Lancelot does not think he actually wants to know how this ended, is absolutely certain he cannot fault Gwaine for being so overwhelmingly protective of Merlin this morning (if it was Guinevere, Lancelot cannot imagine being able to let her out of his sight). “Is he…?” he asks, unable to finish the question.

“Montague got there in time,” Gwaine tells him, and Lancelot lets himself feel a moment of relief. “Got stabbed in the process, and Merlin was drugged, I think, though that might have just been the bump on the back of his head, but yeah. They’re both more or less okay, and the bastard responsible has been taken care of.”

“Taken care of?” Lancelot echoes, more than half sure he knows what this means but needing to be absolutely certain, needing to know he does not have to ensure Arthur orders a very slow, very painful means of execution for someone whose name Lancelot does not know and whose crimes he would rather not see detailed.

"I killed him," Gwaine admits, the stubborn set of his jaw suggesting there is no way at all he can be persuaded to think this was not the correct course of action; Lancelot does not know what response he expects, but it is probably not the one he gets.

"Good," Lancelot says, pressing his knee against Gwaine's thigh for the tiniest fraction of a second, knowing absolutely how he feels; whatever the remainder of the week may hold, there is no question that Lancelot would kill to keep Guinevere safe. "Good."

Gwaine flashes him a fierce grin, showing too many teeth and no genuine happiness at all, then produces a wine skin from somewhere about his person. "Drink?"

X

Merlin walks quickly, his head down, magic flurrying down the corridors ahead of him, dragging behind him like a too-long cloak, searching out anyone who might be close by. There are guards here and there, the odd servant fluttering around trying to complete one final chore before turning in for the night, but for the most part the halls he paces down are empty, and it's easy enough to divert the attention of the few people he has to pass by.

It's not the first time he's taken this route, not even the first time he's done so in the middle of the night, but there's never been this urgency to it before, this desperate need to pass safely, unnoticed, unseen.

The speed with which Gwaine answers his tiny tap on the door is all the proof Merlin could need that he hasn't just woken him, but even so, he's dishevelled, his hair raked back where he's been dragging his hands through it, features drawn with exhaustion, squinting in the torch-lit brightness. He smiles anyway, though, slipping through the door and pulling it nearly but not quite shut behind him. "'Reth's asleep," he explains quietly, his eyes a tiny bit unfocused but still mostly sober, rubbing briskly at his bare arms, and Merlin feels just a tad guilty for drawing him from his nice, warm blankets, even if he was clearly just as awake as Merlin has been for the last few hours. "Is everything okay, Merlin?"

"Yes," Merlin says, not sure if he's shivering from sympathy or because he's cold too. "No, actually. I'm not- I mean, I can't- Can I just…?"

Fortunately, Gwaine manages to decipher this array of incompleteness, nodding easily. "Course," he says, glancing over his shoulder at the darkness of his room. "Just give me a minute to wake Gareth, yeah, and then the bed's all yours."

Merlin shakes his head minutely, his eyes fixed on a point just about level with Gwaine's knees. "The floor's fine," he answers, wanting and not wanting to reach for Gwaine's hand. "I just… Please?"

He feels Gwaine's eyes on him for a long time, assessing but not harsh, not unkind. "Of course," he says again, stepping back and letting Merlin follow him before closing the door, waiting for a permissive nod before turning the key in the lock. "Have the blankets closest to the fire," he adds in a whisper, pressing the key into Merlin's palm. "I've got another load somewhere."

Merlin obeys, even if a little bit of him wants to argue that they can share, and he's asleep before Gwaine has finished laying out a second makeshift bedroll.

X

Gwaine sets up his temporary bed a careful distance from Merlin's, close enough for Merlin to wake him easily if he needs to, far enough away that they're not touching, that he shouldn't be infringing on whatever level of space Merlin needs right now.

It's a solid plan, perfectly decent, and yet when he wakes up later in the night, the two of them are curled together like a nest of newborn puppies, a tangle of limbs and blankets and warmth. Merlin is still asleep, his back tucked against Gwaine's chest, breathing deep and even, clinging to the arm Gwaine has wrapped around him in his sleep. He’s still asleep, and Gwaine doesn't know if it's better to run the risk of waking him by trying to extract himself or to stay as they are and face the equally large risk of Merlin panicking if he wakes of his own accord.

Eventually, his tired, tired eyes decide for him, and what they decide is that this is a decision that can wait until the morning; he yawns, rests his forehead against the back of Merlin's neck, and falls asleep again.

X

The next thing he knows, the sun is up, a bird is singing somewhere outside his window, and a pair of feet are trying to sneak out of his room without making a sound. They're doing a pretty good job of it, too, at least until they reach the door, which rattles in its frame but completely refuses to open. Gwaine, his face still buried against Merlin's back, doesn't see what happens next, but he can make a reasonable guess: Gareth turns back to check the noise hasn’t woken them, stubs his toe against the door jamb, and then proceeds to drop his boots with a loud thud and an equally loud curse, hopping up and down on one leg whilst clutching at his injured foot.

Merlin jolts into consciousness, and Gwaine can feel his heart rabbiting, can sense the pressure of his magic flooding the room, crackling soundlessly like the air before a thunderstorm.

"You're okay," Gwaine says, pulling his arm from Merlin's grasp and sitting up, away. "It's okay, Merlin. It's just me."

"And me," Gareth adds, an automatic petulance to it that doesn't quite manage to cover up his confusion.

"And Gareth," Gwaine amends, rolling his eyes, "but he couldn't hurt a fly, so you don't need to worry about him."

"Oi!"

Gwaine wrenches his gaze from Merlin's, twisting to give his brother a _shut up or get out_ glare (the latter not being an option, 'Reth at least has the good sense to do the former), then turns to Merlin again, trying not to sink into the ocean staring back at him, an ocean frosted with gold. He fails dismally, because it's Merlin and Gwaine will always be lost where he's concerned, but it doesn't seem to matter too much; Merlin blinks, slower than the creep of ice across a lake, then smiles a halfway smile. "I'm fine," he says, and to Gwaine's surprise it actually rings true.

He relaxes, feeling the pressure in the room drop, then has a moment of unnecessary concern (not panic, it's hardly severe enough to be called that) when Merlin's eyes flare gold again.

"The door's open now, Gareth," Merlin says, smiling slightly, then roots around in their tangled mess of blankets until he finds a key (and Gwaine's thigh, but he's willing to give Merlin the benefit of the doubt and call that an accident). "Here," Merlin adds, flinging the key in Gareth's general direction. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine," Gareth says, his cheeks pink with embarrassment, unlatching the door and backing out of the room. "Sorry I woke you both."

"Not-" _a problem_ , Gwaine starts to say, but his brother has already fled.

Merlin turns to him, a momentary smile on his face that borders on dazzling, scrambling to his feet. "Breakfast," he says, reaching a hand to Gwaine and hauling him upright. "I need to get Arthur his before I can eat."

He has his boots on before Gwaine can realise what he's doing, dragging his arms into his jacket and attempting to smooth some of the wrinkles out of his shirt. "Thank you," he says, darting briefly into Gwaine's space and drawing him into a quick, tight hug. "I haven't slept that well in months."

"Welcome, love," Gwaine says. "Any time."

Merlin grins once more, and then he's gone, leaving Gwaine feeling like this is quite the oddest morning he's had since coming here, and, given some of the places he's woken up in Camelot, that's really saying quite a lot.

X

It's funny, Merlin thinks, that Arthur looks just as concerned today, when he turns up on time and far less on edge, as he did yesterday, when Merlin barely managed to make it there at all.

X

Usually, Gwaine hates the bullshit posturing that comes with being one of Arthur’s knights, the whole bowing-and-scraping, uniformed-and-standing-in-rank-for-no-real-reason thing. Then again, he usually doesn’t have quite so strong a reason to want to keep Merlin in his sight at all times, and if he’s standing outside the castle as Arthur and Gwen greet a whole load of poncy, overdressed, entitled gits (and never mind that most of that description fits him right about now), he can see exactly where Merlin is.

Merlin is here, and safe, and the only people even close to being able to touch him are the king and almost-queen, so at least in that much, there is nothing to be concerned about.

Despite the fact that he invited most of these people (or at least had final say in who was invited, because from the reports Gwaine has heard, a lot of people seemed to have a lot of opinions), Arthur seems remarkably disinterested in the proceedings, greeting everyone with a polite smile but very little more than that. He bows when their visitors do, Gwaine and the others imitating him, but barely more than a word is exchanged; Gwaine is relieved, mostly because things seem to be proceeding far quicker than he'd thought they would, and with nowhere close to the level of ceremonious bullshit he was expecting.

Gwen, on the other hand, looks absolutely petrified, even with the hours and hours of research she's done for the occasion, and Gwaine aches with sympathy for her (and for Lancelot, who just has to stand and watch her suffer, not even able to offer the comfort of a hand in hers, as Arthur does). Her usually rich skin has ashy undertones, her movements shaky, and when the last of today's guests, a woman with an unruly halo of blonde hair and a travel-worn dress, flings herself from her horse before Arthur and says, "So, this is the woman you chose over me?" Gwaine is surprised Gwen doesn't faint.

"Princess Elena," Arthur says, and _changeling_ , Gwaine thinks, feeling Lance tense beside him, though that's probably more from the princess' words than because he's remembering the same conversation Gwaine is. "Camelot welcomes you."

If that's what a welcoming greeting sounds like, Gwaine would hate to hear a frosty one; however well-raised Arthur may have been, all the kingly manners in the world aren't enough to hide how unimpressed he is.

The princess beams, apparently oblivious to the tension around her, how many men are willing to run her through (or blast her into atoms, in Merlin's case) if she says anything more to hurt Guinevere. "I'm happy to be here," she says, and, contrary to whatever her first sentence suggested, she sounds like she means it. "The world could do with more love in it."

At that, Arthur seems to relax a little, and Gwen lets out a breathless laugh, tiny and full of nerves. "Thank you for coming," she says softly, with a surprisingly steady curtsy. "I know it was feared this marriage might cause tension between our lands, and it gladdens me to see that isn't so."

"My Lady Guinevere," Elena answers, her curtsy just as steady, just as graceful, her voice just as quiet, "I owe your husband a debt of gratitude that is beyond my ability to repay. For as long as I live, our kingdoms shall be allied. In light of that fact," she continues, raising her voice so that even those at the back of the assembled crowds can hear her, "I bring you both a gift. An occasion such as this is no time for fasting."

She waves her hand, and three carts pull forwards, led by horses as fine as the one she rode in on and surrounded by armed men. Each one overflows with barrels and baskets, grains and vegetables and apples, Gwaine is _sure_ he can smell apples.

"Any debt that may once have been between us is more than repaid, my lady," Arthur says, sweeping into a bow so deep Gwaine is surprised he doesn't graze his head on the cobblestones. "Merlin, Sir Gwaine, please show the princess to her chambers. The rest of you, please assist in taking this to the kitchen. It seems we'll be having a feast after all."

X

Gwaine walks close but not too close, shouldering two of Elena's three large bags, and that's only because Merlin insists on carrying one of them himself; yeah, he's maybe still a tad twitchy, and he’s still more than a tad bruised, but he's not an invalid and he won't let them treat him like he is. Princess Elena strides along at his other side, no longer clumsy, but Merlin still wouldn't consider her particularly princess-y. Beautiful, yes, and definitely regal, but independent, strong, and clearly just as reluctant to ride in a carriage as she was before.

"I remember you," she says, smiling. "The physician's assistant, yes?"

"Sometimes," Merlin agrees. "When I'm not too busy being Arthur's servant, or training with the knights," _or trying to keep everyone alive_ , he adds silently, _or unenchanted, or human,_ and speaking of which _…_ "How have you been, my lady? Since your last visit, I mean."

"Well, thank you, Merlin," she answers, then seems to hesitate slightly, something close to a frown sliding across her face. "You know, it's strange, but since I left Camelot, I've felt so much _better_. I used to have the strangest dreams, I slept so badly, and… It's not ladylike to admit it, but I fell such a lot, didn't I? Now, though, it's… It's like my skin fits better, if that makes sense."

"It does," Merlin says, thinking of his magic, how it's felt all those times he's had to cram it inside when it's wanted out, let himself be ridiculed by people he could so easily destroy. "It makes perfect sense, my lady."

"You're very kind to say so, Merlin," Elena says, as Gwaine reaches out and briefly, just briefly, squeezes Merlin's fingers in his own. Then, with a forced lightness of the sort Merlin is most accustomed to, she asks, "And how did you come to be here, Sir Gwaine? I don't recognise you from before."

"That," Gwaine says, with a grin that is so very nearly tangible as well as audible, present enough that Merlin's skin prickles with jealousy (surely he should be the only one Gwaine smiles at like that, _surely_ ), "Is a very long story, my lady, and not at all appropriate for a princess's ears."

"How wonderful," Elena replies, with an eagerness that almost amuses Merlin out of his envy. "Those are the best kind."

X

They dine in the great hall tonight, knights and nobles and guests alike, Merlin flitting from Gwen to Arthur and back again, a smile on his face that isn't quite real enough for Gwaine's peace of his mind, but then quite a few of the smiles around him aren't real. Montague is a peculiar shade of grey, having spent the day walking around when he should probably have been resting; Elyan still looks a little like he wants to kill Princess Elena for being unkind to his sister; Lancelot… Lancelot looks like someone just drowned his puppy, and who could really blame him.

"'S not too late to leave," Gwaine mutters under his breath, not sure if he's talking about the meal or the city. "I'll come with you, and maybe 'Reth and Merlin and some of the others, too. All you have to do is ask."

"Answer me honestly," Lancelot says, looking up from his food for the first time all evening and meeting Gwaine's gaze, holding it like whatever truth he's asking for is there for the whole world to see. "Does leaving make it any easier?"

Gwaine thinks about it for a long moment, remembering the shame and the lies and the desperate desire to be back in Camelot, back home. He remembers the almost-peace brought on by distance, the time taken to realise this is a wound that will never fully heal, and the great, big, wrenching pit inside that was both the fear of coming back and the fear of never returning. He remembers, and he is honest.

"Not even a little bit," he says, then leans across Leon to grab the wine jug just a little bit too far down the table to be in easy reach. "'Nother?"

"Please," Lance says, sliding his goblet towards Gwaine.

X

Merlin shouldn't, he knows, but his only thought when he finally finishes clearing pots from the hall and picking up after Arthur is to go to Gwaine. And maybe he's still not completely safe to be around, maybe his magic still jumps to attention whenever Gwaine is in the area, maybe anyone else who'd come as close to being violated as Merlin did two nights ago wouldn't be quite so dependent on the presence of another, but… He needs Gwaine, he feels absolutely safe around him, and if Gwaine doesn't have a problem letting Merlin sleep in his room and his arms, knowing he _shouldn't_ doesn't carry as much weight as it ought to.

"He left dinner with Lancelot," Gareth says before Merlin can ask, holding the door open for him to enter. "He said to tell you he shouldn't be too late, if you showed up."

For lack of a better response, Merlin smiles, tight and a little uneasy, walking into the room and sitting in the chair closest to the fire (his chair, once). Gareth sits opposite him, in Gwaine's chair, frowning and awkward.

"Are…" he starts, falling silent when Merlin focuses on him, then blushes an alarming shade of red before continuing. "Are you sleeping with him?"

Merlin contemplates feigning ignorance ( _sleeping with who?)_ or outrage ( _that's hardly any of your business, is it?_ ), but since this is Gareth's room too, since Gareth woke this morning to the sight of Merlin and his brother wrapped up in blankets and each other, neither is really an appropriate response. "No," Merlin says, because if lying is not acceptable, saying what he actually thinks ( _not yet_ ) is even less so.

"Were you?"

Again, lying is stupid and not very believable; Merlin nods, once, and tries to pretend this interrogation isn't as uncomfortable as it is. He braces himself for whatever Gareth is going to ask next, anticipating even more awkwardness, and is surprised when the next words out of Gwaine's brother's mouth are not anything close to a question.

"Don't break his heart again," Gareth says, sounding remarkably self-possessed, given his youth and his usual cluelessness. "He'll let you, because he's not good at putting himself first, so it's on you to make sure he doesn't get hurt."

"I-" Merlin starts, fully intending to promise never to hurt Gwaine again, or at least try his very hardest not to.

"I'm not finished," Gareth interrupts quietly, but with a force to it that kills Merlin's words before they can make their way past his lips. "I kind of want to threaten to hurt you if you do, 'cause that's what he'd do, but since you're powerful enough that threats would only embarrass both of us, I guess the best I can do is ask you to be careful, _please_."

"Do you want me to leave?" Merlin asks, because even if all Gareth is saying is _be careful_ , it feels quite a lot more like _go away and stay away._

"No, Merlin," Gareth answers, still sounding much older than he really is. "Of course not, and even if I did it's not my place to tell you you can't stay here. Just… Don't give him hope if there isn't any?"

_There's hope_ , Merlin thinks, but all he says is, "I promise."

Gareth stares for what seems like an age, but by the time he blinks again, he seems convinced by Merlin's sincerity. "Okay," he says, smiling a smile that is far too much like the one that Merlin is used to receiving from Gwaine, usually right before he says something he knows he shouldn't. "So…" he continues, his voice pitched low, a sense of secrecy to it that is also very, very Gwaine. "The whole M-word thing. Will you show me something?"

X

Gwaine isn't entirely sure what he thought he'd be walking back to, after leaving Lancelot at his room. Gareth, obviously, because since he wasn't with Gwaine and Lance, that's kind of the only other place he'd be, and probably Merlin, if he hasn't got bored of waiting for Gwaine and returned to his own little room in Gaius' quarters, but knowing the people who'll be there isn't at all the same thing as knowing the mood of the room he's about to walk into.

Whatever he's expecting, though, it's not laughter, Merlin's laughter, bright and exquisite, as he hasn't heard it in months, and for a long moment Gwaine is torn between walking in just to see the look on his face and staying outside so as not to ruin whatever moment it is that makes Merlin sound this at ease.

"It's true!" he hears Gareth argue, during a brief lull in Merlin's amusement. "I swear, I'm not making it up."

Merlin just laughs harder, cheerful and free, and, no, Gwaine definitely has to see, has to risk it.

His brother and Merlin are both lying on their backs on the floor, their bodies at right angles to one another, heads not quite touching. Merlin's hands are covering his mouth, doing a poor job of smothering his glee, while Gareth points to the ceiling above them with one hand, looking rather like he wants to hit Merlin with the other.

Gareth starts as Gwaine walks in, looking instantly guilty, if only momentarily so. "It's only you," he says, sounding relieved, his eyes drifting back to the ceiling again. "Shut the door, and then tell Merlin I'm right, would you?"

"I should have known you'd be involved in this," Merlin mutters, more sober but still smiling, patting the floor beside him. "I hate to break it to you, Gareth, but your brother is a pathological liar."

"Pathological is a little harsh," Gwaine argues, mostly just to keep that smile on Merlin's face, bracing himself for contact with the unpleasantly cold stone floors before obeying Merlin's unspoken command for him to join them. To his surprise, though, the floor is more cool than cold, and unnaturally yielding, more akin to lying in a field of long grass than anything it should resemble. "Tell me this isn't permanent, Merlin," he starts to say, then finds himself trailing off into a wondering silence partway through, having finally worked out what the two of them are looking at.

Above them is the night sky, so utterly perfect a representation that Gwaine wonders if Merlin hasn't just gone completely bonkers and removed the ceiling entirely, never mind the floors above them or the fact that maybe someone would notice that. The moon shines down on them, almost full or just fading from it, Gwaine isn't quite sure, and a wisp of cloud floats by, carried on an invisible breeze.

"It's just an illusion," Merlin says quietly, and Gwaine hears the faint whisper of his hand across the floor-that-isn't-a-floor, isn't surprised when Merlin's hand rests next to his, little fingers brushing but nothing more. "You're not mad, are you?"

"No, Merlin," Gwaine answers, not allowing himself to think about it before sliding his hand to cover Merlin's, twisting their fingers together, and all the awe he feels is there in his voice, on display for Merlin and the world to hear. "No, Merlin, I'm not mad."

Merlin relaxes beside him, tilting his head until it rests against Gwaine's shoulder, and there is a peace there, peace like Gwaine has never known in his life.

"What were we laughing at, then?" he asks, tracing his thumb over the back of Merlin's hand.

"Oh," Merlin says, his grin audible. "We were just stargazing. Gareth was telling me about some very interesting constellations."

"Ah," Gwaine answers. "Yeah, alright, maybe pathological wasn't that far off the mark."

X

His brother falls asleep first, somewhere in the midst of Merlin explaining what various stars are actually called, but it's not by a long way. Gwaine thinks of waking him so that one of them can sleep in an actual bed, but by that point he's too close to drifting off himself to make the effort. Instead, he moves far enough to grab the blankets from the bed and throw them at Gareth, then gets enough from the heap on the floor for he and Merlin to not freeze to death overnight.

"Thank you," Merlin says sleepily, rolling onto his side and nestling back against Gwaine.

"No problem, Merlin," Gwaine murmurs, thinking vaguely about moving away, like he should, but he's far too tired for that as well. "Sleep well."

X

Merlin is most of the way to the door before he realises he's not the only one awake hideously early on this bright and icy-cold morning, and even then it's only because Gwaine thinks to stop him.

"Ceiling, Merlin," he says quietly, shuffling until he's propped up on his elbows, fixing Merlin with a sleepy, solid gaze.

"Oh," Merlin says, looking up at the stars still littering the ceiling above them, somehow not reflecting the sunrise outside; Merlin's not quite sure how he did that, or why the stars currently on the ceiling aren't ones he's ever seen at night, but it's quite impressive, really. "Yeah, I should probably do something about that."

"Not that it's not incredible, but yeah, you really should. And," he adds, reluctance noticeable in his voice. "Maybe the floor as well? It's not like I get many visitors who don't know about you, but just in case, it might be good if they're not stepping into a meadow, you know?"

"Yeah," Merlin agrees, closing his eyes momentarily while he fixes in his mind what it is he wants to do. He opens them again, knowing from Gwaine's wide-eyed stare that they're fiercely golden, and then from his grimace that the stone below him is once more stone. That's too complicated to try condition to the person walking on it, and something about it _wants_ to be solid and unyielding again, but the stars… They're just an illusion, tied though they may be to the sky outside, and it's so little effort to add an extra twist to the magic. "Done," he says, trying not to smile at the slow bewilderment that crosses Gwaine's face.

"Merlin, I hate to break it to you, but I can still see them."

"I know," Merlin says, letting his smile win out. "You're special, though."

It's so little effort, but for the grin Gwaine gives him, Merlin would do so much more.

X

Gwaine isn't quite sure how he ended up spending the day with two princesses following him around, but that's apparently what's happening, and not much more than a year ago he'd have been utterly ecstatic about that fact.

Today, though, when Elena flings herself onto the bench across from Gwaine at breakfast, steals a slice of bread from his plate, and says, “This is Mithian, you're going to love her,” he really can't be bothered.

The brunette who followed Elena into the room smiles sort of ruefully. “Hello,” she says, settling on the bench and extracting the bread from Elena's hand. “Gwaine, right? I believe this belongs to you. Elena, go get your own.”

“Not hungry,” Elena answers with a shrug, apparently completely oblivious to the contradiction between her words and her actions.

“Well, I am,” Mithian says, “So you can go get your breakfast, and get me a plate as well.”

Elena huffs, the climbs to her feet with a truly remarkable lack of grace. “Fiiiine,” she mutters, stomping away, then shouts back over her shoulder, “But you owe me, Mith.”

“I'll get your breakfast tomorrow,” Mithian shouts back, rolling her eyes. “Gods, she's such a child.”

Leon snickers, and jerks his head in Gwaine's direction. “That explains why she seems to like this idiot so much, then.”

Gwaine glares, but decides a reply is far too much effort, particularly when the plate in front of him contains more food than any meal he's had since he got back here. Arguing about his maturity can wait until he's done eating, and maybe if he's exceptionally charming Leon will realise just how bad an idea it is to leave two future monarchs in his care and assign someone else.

Unfortunately, an irritable silence does nothing to help Gwaine escape from a day he once would have loved and now pretty much dreads; it's only a matter of minutes after Elena's return to the table with a plate of food in each hand (as the woman who has temporarily brought proper meals back to Camelot, she clearly has no difficulty getting extra) when Merlin makes a bid for freedom, and Gwaine knows the others won't hang around too long.

“Want a hand, Merlin?” he offers, even though he's only halfway through his breakfast, because going with Merlin is probably the only opportunity to get away the others will let him have.

“Nope, I'm good,” Merlin answers, and maybe his smile doesn't look completely genuinely but his voice sounds honest enough. “A day off doesn't happen all that often, you all might as well enjoy it.”

Gwaine gives Merlin his best wide-eyed pathetic look, hoping he'll realise that a day off is about the last thing Gwaine wants today. Unfortunately, Merlin is as fantastically oblivious as he usually is, because he just broadens his grin into something a little bit manic. “See you at lunchtime,” he finishes, offering what is probably meant to be a bow to the princesses, the gesture so awkward that Gwaine is torn between being embarrassed on his behalf and hoping he’ll do it again when Arthur's around so that Gwaine doesn't end up being the only one who teases him about it.

“You know,” Elena says, watching Merlin's retreating figure with an intensity that has Gwaine feeling considerably less amused. “I think I can see why Arthur keeps him around,” she concludes, oddly serious, and apparently completely unaware of the looks the rest of them are giving her.

“Yeah, Merlin's definitely something else,” Montague says, enough relish to it that Gwaine would be glaring at him if he hadn't done a better job of protecting Merlin than he has lately. As it is, he just lets it go, ignoring the questioning look Leon shoots in his direction and pretending to be interested as Montague follows up his comment with, “So, what are Your Highnesses doing today, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“You may ask,” Mithian says, arching one perfect eyebrow at him, a tiny, regal smile gracing her lips. “I see no reason why we should answer you.”

Elena beams, bright as a daisy, and leans forwards conspiratorially, an action completely at odds with the volume at which she speaks. “We’re going to look for secret passageways,” she announces with great glee. “And Sir Gwaine is going to help us.”

_He really, really isn't,_ Gwaine thinks, but across the table Gareth’s jaw drops, and Gwaine sees any chance of him escaping vanish in a puff of smoke.

X

"What's this?" Merlin asks, as Arthur shoves a small bundle of cloth under his nose.

Arthur blushes violently, mutters something under his breath, and pushes the thing at Merlin again.

"I didn't catch that," Merlin says, secretly thinking that even if he had, he'd've had Arthur repeat it: anything that makes him that embarrassed is good for his humility, not to mention quite entertaining to watch.

"I _said_ ," Arthur says, irritation lending a little extra volume to his voice, enough that Merlin can actually make out his next words. "It's a gift."

Having been told that, Merlin can see that there is something vaguely gift-like about the bundle; the cloth is finer than it looked at first glance, and the string holding it together does seem to be a ribbon of some kind. In fact, if Merlin squints, he's fairly sure he can make out some approximation of a bow, in amongst all the knots. "I see," he says slowly. "Do you want me to rewrap it for you?"

This (perfectly reasonable) question is apparently one too many for Arthur. "I want you to open it, idiot," he snaps. "It's for you, from Guinevere and I."

"Oh."

"Idiot," Arthur repeats, as Merlin actually takes the gift from him, then watches with a curious sort of pride as Merlin battles his way through the ribbon.

"It's a key…?" Merlin says, holding it up and examining it like the meaning of this as a gift is suddenly going to appear to him (it's still just a key, though).

"It's not just a key," Arthur says, and Merlin wonders if he's supposed to be grateful for the piece of string the key hangs on as well. "There's a room, on the knights' corridor."

"You know I already have a room, don't you?"

Arthur looks flustered, his eyes darting down and away from Merlin's. "It's for Gareth," he says, an evenness to his tone that can only be forced. "Or for you and Gwaine, if you'd prefer."

“Ah,” Merlin manages.

His king blushes again, not quite as intensely as earlier, but still not a shade that can really be called healthy. “I just… I know you’ve been sleeping there, and I- we- _Guinevere_ thought the two of you might appreciate… _space_.”

“Ah,” Merlin repeats, then follows it up with gratitude he isn’t entirely sure he feels; he wishes people would stop meddling, however well-meaning they may be, but that’s no excuse to be rude, not when Arthur is so clearly _trying_ , and Merlin honestly has no idea why he didn’t just leave the gift-giving to Gwen. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“You’re welcome,” Arthur replies, oddly gracious, his cheeks still pinker than normal. “And you better wear something tidy tomorrow. Don’t make me regret letting Gwen persuade me out of buying you a new hat.”

“I hate you,” Merlin tells him, though it’s clear from the smile he gets in return that Arthur knows just how much he doesn’t mean it.

X

Gareth strides ahead with giddy enthusiasm, Elena barely a step behind him, the pair of them peeking behind every tapestry and attempting to twist statues from their plinths; so far, neither of them has broken anything, but Gwaine's fairly sure it's only going to be a matter of time.

They're having fun, he tells himself, harmless, uncomplicated fun, and Gwaine really, really wishes he could join in, but he can't. He's too tired, there are constellations on his ceiling, and sleeping with Merlin again, even just sleeping, has his brain all mixed up and confused, wanting what he's not supposed to want anymore. He's too tired, and he'd much rather be spending the day at Merlin's side, washing clothes or scrubbing floors or literally anything, as long as it keeps him close, but instead he's playing escort to two gorgeous women and really, really not enjoying it.

“By the fire in my bedroom, with a good book,” Mithian says softly, walking a step or two behind him. “Or on the beach in the summer, watching the waves crash against the sand.”

“What's that?” Gwaine asks, only just managing not to sound disinterested.

“Places I'd rather be and things I'd rather be doing,” she answers, stepping up next to him and looping her arm around his. “It's a game, Sir Gwaine,” she continues, when his confusion becomes apparent. “And it's your turn.”

“Who says I want to play?”

Mithian smiles, despite his defensive, very slightly snappish tone. “I rather thought your expression did, to be honest. Of course, if you're perfectly happy trailing after your brother and my… Well, if I'm wrong, please tell me so.”

_My brother and your… what?_ Gwaine thinks, raising an eyebrow as he turns to look at her. There's the tiniest hint of a blush on her cheeks and she's very definitely avoiding his gaze, but Gwaine fights the temptation to ask; so far, she seems pretty decent, and since joining forces with Camelot, he's doing his best not to write off all nobles as useless without giving them a chance to prove otherwise.

So he doesn't ask, just smiles and says, “The tavern, with a drink in one hand and… I don't know, a chicken leg in the other?”

“A decent start, I suppose,” she answers, the two of them pausing their idle stroll so that Elena and ‘Reth can examine yet another unidentifiable statue from a hundred different angles. “I'm sure you can do better, though.”

Gwaine slips his arm free and takes a couple of steps back, propping himself up against the wall, a few yards down from the statue. “Maybe,” he says, while ‘Reth yanks at what is probably the statue’s arm and Elena bobs down to poke at the inscription at its feet (are those feet? Is it kneeling or standing or even human-shaped at all?), still fantastically unbothered by the possibility of dirtying or damaging her dress. “Of course, I could just be an idiot who wants nothing more than to get stupidly drunk every evening.”

“You could,” Mithian agrees easily. “But I like to think myself a better judge of character than that.” Her gaze is like a sword through the shoulder, not definitely fatal but still inescapable, pinning him to the wall at his back. She doesn't appear at all fierce or dangerous (and Gwaine has seen enough of this world to know a woman angered can be a great deal more dangerous than any man), merely focused and determined, certain in her judgement, and when Gwaine has spent so long being found wanting, the implication that she deems him more than he seems is flattering.

“I'll give you another chance, if you like,” she says, and it feels to Gwaine to be more than the idle offer it probably is. It feels like she's saying more than she is, more than he'd expect a complete stranger to ask him, and it surprises him how much he wants to answer.

_Another chance_ , he thinks, and yes, if he was offered his pick of anything, absolutely anything under the sun, it would be another chance he asked for.

“There is something,” he says softly. “Someone I would be with, if I could.”

The focused decisiveness in her gaze softens, becomes something no less strong but a little more satisfied. “I thought as much,” she says, settling against the wall beside him with a smile as Elena and Gareth continue their thorough investigation of what the statue may be concealing. “And I'm glad, Sir Gwaine. Ale and chicken is such a dull thing to wish for.”

X

"Can I borrow you for a minute?" Merlin asks, not quite managing to smile, but then the reason he's asking for help isn't exactly something to smile about.

"What's up?" Montague asks, standing up far too quickly given his injury, a pained grimace on his face; Merlin feels guilty for asking him, but it's not like there are a whole lot of people he can turn to for this. The flowers are a surprise for Gwen, so Merlin can't ask her to stand watch while he checks on them, just like he can't ask Lancelot, who is far too miserable for Merlin to go rubbing salt in his wounds, and everyone else… Arthur and Leon are too busy trying to keep what should be a happy occasion from turning into a complete diplomatic disaster, Elyan wanted Merlin dead a few months ago because of his magic, Percival is far too huge to do sneaking well, and Gwaine… Gwaine is off flirting with princesses (and oh, how Merlin wishes he'd taken Gwaine up on his offer of company this morning, because he's seen them around the castle all morning, smiling and laughing and strolling along arm-in-arm, and no, Merlin's not jealous, honest).

"Erm," Merlin says, still feeling kind of bad, but he's not willing to risk anyone else following him, not again. "It's… It’s not an emergency, not really, but there's something I'm doing, a present for Gwen for tomorrow, and since the last time I went there, someone found out what I… I just figured it'd be good to have someone keeping a lookout."

Montague nods, unsmiling, but Merlin thinks that's probably only because of what happened. "Of course," he says. "Lead on."

The walk through the castle is more or less silent, though not uncomfortably so, and Merlin is free to search the area around them, using his magic to keep track of any living creatures that get too close, trying where he can to tell the difference between rodents, the cats kept to hunt them, and the myriad servants, nobles and distinguished guests milling around the city. It's not a precise art – there's a few dodgy minutes after they cross the courtyard where Merlin is convinced they have a shadow, before Montague says, “Stray dog, Merlin. Relax,” his hand resting briefly on Merlin's arm – but he's getting better at it with practice, and by the time they reach his corner of the garden Merlin's almost confident that there's nothing bigger than a pair of magpies within fifty yards of them.

“Okay,” Merlin says quietly, glancing around once, twice, a third time. “We’re here.”

Again, Montague doesn't smile, but his expression still manages to be kind even as it is deadly serious. “Okay,” he answers, just as quietly, then turns around and leans back against the castle wall, his gaze intent even as his posture borders on relaxed. “Magic away, Merlin. I've got your back.”

X

By mid-afternoon, Gareth and Elena's excitement has waned dramatically. The pair of them get kind of giddy shortly after lunchtime, when they happen across one of the entrances to the network of servants’ hallways and staircases, but it fades when they realise that's all it is, replaced by a steely determination that carries them through the next couple of hours and a handful of suggestions from Gwaine and Mithian that they consider finding something else to be doing.

Finally, though, Mithian manages to convince them that perhaps the castle truly is devoid of real secret passages (Gwaine suspects Merlin might know differently, but mentioning that is not the best way to get the hunt called off – maybe if he's ever feeling particularly charitable, he’ll ask Merlin to help Gareth find something interesting, but now is definitely not that time), and the four of them make their way to the mess hall. It's still almost an hour before they start serving dinner, but since it's too bloody freezing out to go for a walk and Gwaine has exactly no interest in inviting the princesses to spend the rest of the afternoon in his room, he figures they might as well find somewhere to sit.

The four of them sit at the table closest to the fireplace, and Gwaine allows Gareth a good few minutes of trying to get a blaze going before elbowing him out the way; he might not have the same advantage Merlin does when it comes to starting fires, but he's set enough of them in his lifetime to have got the hang of it.

“I could have done it,” Gareth mutters, and Gwaine stays kneeling before the fire a moment longer, keeping his back to the others so his brother doesn't see him smiling. He holds his hands up to the flames, pretending that's all it is, and by the time he turns around again Gareth’s bruised pride seems to be mostly okay.

“Of course you could,” Mithian answers, sparing Gwaine the need to tell the same lie. “Older brothers can be such condescending gits, sometimes.” She smiles sweetly, something about it so innocent that Gwaine just _knows_ ; he looks at Elena, mouthing the words _only child?_ and gets a nod and a broad grin in response.

Gareth takes her words at face value, though, plonking himself on the bench next to Mithian and smiling back at her. “The other one’s worse,” he tells her, something reluctantly amused to it.

“Ain't that the truth,” Gwaine agrees, gallantly deciding to keep mum about Mithian’s lie.

X

_If either of you ever do anything that will hurt Arthur again, you will regret it_ , Lancelot remembers Merlin telling him. _I swear it, on the sun and moon, on earth, air, fire and water_. He remembers the elements answering Merlin's vow, remembers how it felt to meet his friend’s gaze and know that he meant every single word, that, given the choice, he would sooner allow the world to end than he would Arthur's heart to break. He remembers it perfectly, the fear and guilt all mingled together in his brain and his heart, the relief of knowing there would be someone else holding him accountable for his actions, that there was something other than his own conscience to keep him from breaking his oaths and his king’s heart.

And yet…

He has said he will not leave, promised himself more than once that he will not do anything to jeopardise Gwen and Arthur's happiness, but that was then, before, when there was still so much time. When tomorrow was not yet tomorrow, and his heart was not about to be ripped from his chest.

Merlin is not going kill him, Lancelot thinks. He will be angry, furious, more so than Lancelot has ever seen him, but he will not kill him. He will scorn him and shun him and never, ever forgive him, but there will be a part of him that understands, small and insignificant though it may be, and it is that part that will spare Lancelot's life.

Merlin will not kill him, will not kill either of them, and Lancelot can live with anything else.

And so he refuses when his friends ask him if he wishes to join them in a drink, lies through his teeth as he tells them he would prefer to turn in early. He turns down the offers of company, companionship, and ignores the pity as they look at him, these men who hope that all the kingdom’s plans for tomorrow go off without a hitch, even though they know their king and queen’s happiness will destroy Lancelot's very soul.

“You know where we are if you need us,” Merlin says quietly, his hand resting lightly on Lancelot's sleeve, and Lancelot wonders if he knows he is talking in plurals, if he knows how visible his heart is to those who know to look. “I'll see you tomorrow, Lance.”

_Oh, Merlin_ , Lancelot thinks, along with _Thank you_ and _I am so sorry_ and _No, my friend, you will not_.

“Enjoy your evening,” he says aloud, because anything else is far, far too complicated.

Merlin looks at him like he understands, like he knows every thought in Lancelot's head and every wish in his heart and the love that floods through every ounce of his being. He looks at Lancelot like he sees how much this feels like the end of everything and, without warning, he steps closer, folding Lancelot into a hug made up of more than just arms. “Do what you must,” he says, the words barely more than a breath against Lancelot's cheek as his magic settles over him like a blessing.

Merlin pulls back slowly, retreating again until his arms hang by his sides, though the feeling lingers, a tiny splotch of warmth where Lancelot has already resigned himself to nothing but ice. “What you must,” he says a second time, his smile already grieving as he turns away, following Gwaine and the others before Lancelot can formulate a response, not that he has any idea what he might have said.

For a moment, Lancelot stands still, wondering what it is Merlin thinks he is about to do. He does not know, he cannot, because his words sound an awful lot like he accepts Lancelot, sanctions what he is planning, which will never, ever happen.

But that is okay, truly. He has resigned himself to his friends’ hatred, and, whatever happens, whatever Gwen says, he will not be here tomorrow to face it.

He waits until Merlin rounds the corner, until their voices have faded into the distance, then starts walking, the words he has practised running once more through his head.

_I love you, Gwen_ , he is going to say to her. _I have loved you since the moment I first laid eyes on you, and I will continue to love you until long, long after the breath leaves my body. Everything I am, everything I do, I do for you, in your name. Yours is the first face I picture in the morning, and the last thing I see when I close my eyes at night._

_Living without you is torture, seeing you with him every day is killing me, and I would sooner cut out my own heart than watch you marry him tomorrow._

_I am leaving, Guinevere,_ he will tell her, her and only her. _I am leaving Camelot tonight, for good, and I know I should not ask this of you, but I am. If you love me, if you have ever or will ever or could ever love me in return, come with me. Please, please come with me._

And then he will wait, hands outstretched and heart on display, for her to answer.

X

“Is he okay?” Gwaine asks quietly, as Merlin folds himself into the group alongside him, Gareth obligingly stepping over a bit so that he can do so.

“Not really,” Merlin answers, “but I think he wants to be alone, so…”

Gwaine wraps his hand around Merlin's, just for a moment, hopefully too brief for anyone to notice it; he knows he has his secrets, but if Lance is hurting, Merlin has to be hurting just as much, and Gwaine wants to comfort him as best he can (because the gods know that worked out just fine the last time). “And you?” he asks, even quieter. “Are you okay?”

Merlin smiles at him, as bright as he ever has, but then he's always been so good at that, at smiling through whatever heartache he may be feeling. His hand goes to his neck, wrapping his hand around a key that hangs there, one Gwaine is sure he's never noticed before, and he wonders what it opens, wonders but doesn't ask, because if Merlin wants or needs him to know, he'll tell him. “I will be,” Merlin says, so much certainty in his voice. “Thank you.”

_For what?_ Gwaine wonders, but, again, he doesn't ask. “You’re welcome, Merlin,” he says, taking Merlin's hand again, just for a second.

X

Lancelot has it all planned, knows exactly what he is going to say and how he is going to say it, when he will pause for breath, what he will do when Gwen answers him.

If she says yes, if she agrees to leave with him, he will sweep her into his arms as he has wanted to forever. He will kiss her until they are both breathless and giddy with joy, then he will pull back, taking her hands in his, and ask her to pack a bag with all that she cannot live without. He will ask her to meet him at the western gate as the bells ring the change of the watch, and they will run, together. They will no longer be welcome in Camelot or in any kingdom allied with it, but that does not matter. They will go anywhere, do anything, be anyone they wish to be, and they will do it together.

And if she says no… If she says no, Lancelot will smile, press one final kiss to her hand, and wish her all the happiness in the world.

Either way, he has a plan, and whatever Gwen decides, he will be long gone from here by sunrise.

Except then he gets to her house, and pauses at the window. The curtains are open, the room lit by candles and a carefully banked fire, and there she is, the only woman he has ever loved.

She is washing dishes, up to her elbows in suds, a streak across her forehead from where she has swept back an errant lock of hair with damp hands. Her clothes are plain, her hair twisted into a messy knot at the back of her head, her hands calloused by years of hard work, but that does not matter, has never, ever mattered. She is beautiful regardless, the most beautiful woman Lancelot has ever seen, and the look on her face… Gwen smiles softly, singing or speaking too quietly for Lancelot to hear the words from outside, and draped across a chair in the corner of the room is a dress fit for a queen.

She is so, so beautiful, his heart and soul, the one thing that makes his sorry existence worth anything, and Lancelot would die for her, a thousand times over, if she could always be as happy as she is right now.

He had a plan.

_I love you, Gwen_ , he thinks again, and knows that he could never, would never, _will_ never say it to her. _I wish you all the happiness in the world._

X

Gwaine nudges him gently in the side, and Merlin turns his head towards him in question. “What's up?”

Gwaine doesn't say anything, just nods in the direction of the doorway, and Merlin follows his gaze to see Lancelot step into the tavern, the least sad smile Merlin's seen from him in months on his face. He looks around, clearly scanning the room for them all, and Merlin feels a smile cross his own face; he knew, when he said goodnight to Lancelot, that there was a chance he was actually saying goodbye. He knew, and he took the risk anyway, because Lancelot deserves that much, deserves to know his choices are his and his alone.

Merlin could never hurt or kill Lancelot, not deliberately, but then he has never threatened to do so. All he swore was that Lance would regret it if he and Gwen hurt Arthur, and that was never anything more than a statement; Lancelot would regret it, as he would regret hurting anyone, and there would be no need for action on Merlin's part to make that happen.

He sees the moment Lancelot spots them, something like relief flickering across his face as he starts to wend his way through the crowd. He stops on the edge of their group, closest to Merlin but not quite joining them. “I think I will have that drink after all,” he says, voice a little shaky, but only a little.

“Okay,” Merlin answers, shuffling closer to Gwaine and pulling Lance into the gap beside him. “Go get the man a drink, Gwaine,” he continues, smiling again as Gwaine huffs good-naturedly and heads for the bar.

He's back reasonably quickly, given the crowds, placing a full tray in the middle of the table they're all congregated around and ducking back from it in time to avoid the flurry of arms reaching for drinks. There's only three left when Gwaine steps up again, picking up the remaining drinks and rounding the table to stand beside Merlin again.

“Here,” he says, passing the first to Lance and the second to Merlin, before taking a long, healthy swig from the last. “Here's to…” he trails off, the toast unfinished, and Merlin pats his arm sympathetically, not knowing the right words to help him out; the occasion is obvious, and the others have been raising glasses to it all night, but Merlin knows Gwaine, like himself, doesn't have the heart to do it now that Lancelot's here.

Lancelot just smiles, though, and it's not even really all that sad, not like Merlin would expect it to be – he knew Lance would do the right thing, as he always does, but he never would have thought he could look so at peace with it.

“To Gwen and Arthur,” Lance says, still smiling. “And to love.”

“To love,” Gwaine echoes, and Merlin can feel his eyes on him, the same way he has almost every moment they've been in the same room for so, so many months.

“To love.”

X

Merlin has never seen the streets of Camelot as busy as they are this morning, the people out in force, visitors and city residents alike. There's a smile on every face, children laughing as they race one another through the final remnants of the winter’s snow, parents occasionally calling for them to slow down while other people look on indulgently.

Merlin makes his way through the horde as quickly as he can, but it's still later than he was hoping for when he arrives at Gwen's door, flowers in hand, the honeysuckle he planted bound up with winter greenery and a few snowdrops that were brave enough to poke their heads above ground.

“Just a minute,” Elyan calls when he knocks, and Merlin hears footsteps as he crosses the room towards the door. It opens to reveal Elyan’s grinning face, and a living space free of all the decoration Merlin is used to seeing here, simple though it may have been. “Hi, Merlin,” he says. “Shouldn't you be with Arthur?”

“I was,” Merlin says, grinning back at him. “I took him his breakfast a while ago, offered to keep him company for a bit, but after the third time he yelled at me to clear off, I figured it was probably time to leave him alone. How's Gwen?”

“About ready to batter the next person who asks her that question,” Gwen answers, emerging from behind the curtained area at the back of her home. Merlin turns from Elyan's sympathetic grimace to look at her, and he's never really been one for women but the sight of her renders him quite literally speechless for a moment.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” she says, when his silence continues past what might be considered reasonable.

“You should,” Merlin tells her. “Gwen, you look… Wow.”

She laughs a little, and Merlin sees in her face the girl who was his first friend here, all those years ago. She's hiding behind yards and yards of red silk and gold embroidery, under perfect curls swept back with a simple ribbon, beneath layers of maturity and dignity and so much self-confidence, but she's there all the same.

“Here,” he says abruptly, holding out the flowers he's brought her, because the alternative is hugging her so tightly it'll ruin her dress and her hair and any chance of his making it through the day without sobbing like Hunith always does at weddings. “I grew these for you.”

She looks down at the flowers, and Merlin sees them how she must, boring and a little bedraggled and not at all good enough to give to his queen. “I know it's not much,” he continues, feeling more than a little stupid. “I just thought that… I don't know what I thought, really, but they're yours, if you want them.”

“Oh, Merlin,” she says, a tiny, breathless hitch in the middle of his name. Merlin looks up in time to see a single tear trickle down her cheek, and he knows now that it's a terrible gift but he didn't realise it was that bad. “Merlin, they're beautiful.”

“It's not much,” he says again, unable to meet her gaze, looking instead at the toes of his boots.

“It's perfect,” she says, soft and sincere, and Merlin sees the hem of her skirts sweep over his boots a second before he feels her hands on his arms, a feather-light kiss on his cheek. “It's perfect, and my first act as queen will be to behead anyone who says otherwise. Including you.”

“Well, then,” he says, looking up from the floor, a smile on his face to match that on hers. “I wouldn't dare to argue with the queen.”

“Very clever of you,” she says, taking the bouquet from his hands and stepping back, then moving in the direction of the door. “Walk with us?”

“Some of the way, yeah,” Merlin agrees, walking after her, the two of them pausing to let Elyan open the door and exit ahead of them, ostensibly as Gwen’s guard, though Merlin can't imagine anyone in Camelot wanting to do her harm. “Someone needs to make sure your husband-to-be looks human when he shows up.”

Gwen takes his hand again, squeezing just once before letting go and stepping into the sunlight. “Thank you, Merlin,” she says softly. “Thank you for everything.”

Merlin smiles, following her out, and whilst he thought the crowds might have shrunk a little as people made their way towards the courtyard, he can now see that's not so; there are even more people than before outside Gwen's home. There’s a momentary hush as Gwen takes her first few steps amongst them, followed immediately by what might well be the largest cheer Merlin has ever heard.

“Any time, Gwen,” he murmurs, knowing the words will be lost in the hubbub long before they reach her ears, but then it's more of a promise to himself than it is one to her.

X

“It's nearly time,” Merlin says, walking into Arthur's room without knocking for what he swears will be the last time (he's happy for Gwen and Arthur, he really is, but he has absolutely no desire to walk in on what they're almost certainly going to be doing with great frequency for the next few days). “Are you ready, Arthur?”

Arthur wheels around on the spot, falling into a stillness so unnatural that Merlin knows without asking that he's just interrupted a severe case of pacing.

“I'm fine, Merlin,” Arthur answers, making a solid but completely unsuccessful attempt at sounding calm.

Merlin tries not to smile too obviously, even though Arthur's anxiety is both visible and really quite adorable, because Arthur really won't like it if he thinks he's being laughed at. “You're allowed to be nervous,” he says. “As amazing as Gwen is, it’s still a pretty important day.”

Despite the fact that his hair looks like it should have birds nesting in it and he's speaking through teeth so gritted they may as well be stuck together, Arthur makes a solid attempt at an irritated glare. “I'm not nervous, Merlin.”

It still requires a colossal amount of effort on Merlin's behalf not to laugh at him, but somehow he succeeds. Instead, he crosses the room and proceeds to bat Arthur's hands away from his hair and return some kind of sanity to his appearance; yes, Gwen is very much in love with him, but there's still a chance she’ll walk out on him if he shows up looking like a lunatic.

“There,” he says after a moment, his hands maybe lingering a little too long. Just a little, barely even enough for Arthur to start frowning at him in confusion. “Much less crazy.”

“I didn't look crazy,” Arthur snaps, though it's not so much anger as instinct, Merlin thinks, and he's still lingering, still closer than he's ever been. “I always look perfectly respectable, and you would be lucky to look lik-”

Merlin’s not sure why he does it, he really isn't, except maybe because he’ll never have another chance. He's never had a chance, really, and for months he hasn't even wanted one, but today is Arthur's wedding day and Merlin really, really wants to kiss him.

Arthur doesn't kiss him back, but then that's exactly what Merlin expected, and he's not being shoved away in surprise or, worse, disgust. Instead they're just standing there, Merlin's hands in Arthur's hair and their lips brushing, soft and nothing at all like Merlin used to imagine it being, nothing hopeful or desperate or even really all that attraction-based to it; Merlin pulls back after only a second or two, offering Arthur a slightly rueful smile and patting down his hair again.

It takes Arthur a lot longer to figure out a response than Merlin could have possibly imagined, and his startled silence is almost as endearing as his pre-wedding jitters. He finally manages to find words, if his stammering is any indication.

“Merlin, I- Whilst I'm flattered by your interest, Merlin, I-”

(At this point, Merlin considers interrupting him, but he's not actually as good a person as all that, and he sort of wants to see how exactly Arthur plans to break his heart.)

“I mean,” Arthur continues, still not making eye-contact, though he reaches out and pats Merlin's left shoulder precisely three times. “Merlin, I appreciate your attention, but I'm afraid I cannot reciprocate it, Merlin. I'm sure you're a very attractive man, if that's what appeals to a person, but I- You- I'm _marrying_ _Guinevere_ , Merlin. I'm marrying her today, and I understand why you might have some great plan to steal me from her, but it's not happening. I'm sorry, Merlin, I really am, but- ”

“Gods, Arthur,” Merlin cuts in, finally deciding to put the silly fool out of his agony. “Would you get over yourself already? I just wanted to see what it was like.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, looking mostly bewildered, but, after a moment of contemplation, also a little curious. “And?”

Merlin smiles, and takes several steps backwards. “I'm sure Gwen's a very lucky woman, but I'll stick with what I've got, thanks. Come on, you're going to be late, and gods know you don't want that to happen. Gwen might change her mind.”

He grins even brighter, waits long enough for Arthur's expression to tilt from confusion towards irritation, then sets off at a very brisk walk in the direction of the great hall.

“Mer _lin_!”

Yep, Arthur's definitely following him.

X

To Gwaine's great relief, the ceremony is both shorter and less tedious than he expected of a royal wedding. Yeah, it's still long and protracted, but not unbearably so, mostly over and done with before everyone in attendance can start getting bored or audibly fidgety. Gwen looks as dignified and noble as anyone who cares about such things could ask for, Arthur smiles like an imbecile and somehow manages not to make a complete tit of himself as he says his vows, and when the time comes for objections not even Uther has a word to say against the union (yeah, Gwaine's fairly sure Gaius has sedated the old bastard, but it's still something of a relief).

He doesn't allow himself to look for Merlin until all the words are said and the crowd is cheering as Arthur and Gwen kiss, too afraid of what he might see and what he might do because of it; if Merlin's heartbreak is written across his face the way Gwaine expects it to be, he doesn't think he could stand by without protesting this wedding, and the gods know that isn't something Merlin would want him to do.

Not looking can only work for so long, though, so as soon as he knows it's too late to stop anything Gwaine is searching him out, ready to offer whatever support is required of him, but it's not until they're all sat down to dine that Gwaine sees him properly.

Merlin is sat at the high table, a guest of honour at Arthur's side, the way he should be, and his expression isn't the one of forced merriment that Gwaine wasn't expecting, nor is it the misery he would have thought next most likely. Instead, Merlin is just smiling as he looks at the bride and groom, serene and entirely genuine, and Gwaine cannot help but stare up at him, relief and regret at war within his heart.

Apparently sensing his gaze, Merlin looks back at him, his smile clouding over a little, and Gwaine isn't having that at all. He grins, raising his cup at Merlin in a silent toast, and then pulls the most ridiculous face he can manage, heart lightening as Merlin splutters into laughter.

For the first time in forever, he thinks things might actually be okay.

X

He's still staring at Arthur’s table sometime later, when all the plates have been cleared and almost everyone has left their seats to dance and talk and revel in the day’s joy. Arthur remains in his seat, and Leon has moved along to sit in Merlin’s vacated chair in order to talk to him, but beyond that, there’s no one left sitting there. It isn’t the table that holds his attention, anyway, more the look on Arthur’s face as he watches Gwen make her way through the crowd in the hall. It is so clear that he isn’t listening to a word Leon is saying to him, too caught up in the day to pay attention to anything beyond his new wife.

Gwaine looks at the delight on his face, a level of happiness any man would be envious of, and thinks _fuck it_. He could put it more elegantly than that, come up with a hundred reasons to do this and a few thousand more to talk himself out of it, but everything can be summed up pretty damn neatly in those two words.

_Fuck._

_It_.

He’s tired of being unhappy.

“Lance?” he says, standing and placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Do you mind if ‘Reth sleeps in your room tonight?”

Lance looks up at him, and Gwaine wonders what message his face conveys, whether he can see a whole array of thoughts there, most of which are along the lines of _it doesn’t matter_. It doesn’t matter that Arthur is Merlin’s world, that however much Gwaine cares for him he would be lucky if he comes second in Merlin’s heart. It doesn’t matter that being with Merlin changed him, that being without him broke him. It doesn’t matter that it’ll be difficult, that it’ll hurt, that Gwaine feels a wariness that borders on fear about doing this to himself again.

It doesn’t matter, not when they both might actually be happy again.

“That might be possible, yes,” Lancelot answers, but his smile conveys what Gwaine thinks his actual opinion is: _about damn time_.

“Thanks,” Gwaine tells him, and wonders if he should be feeling guilty for leaving him here alone. “I owe you one.”

Lancelot shakes his head and stands as well, hauling Gwaine into an unexpected hug. “I think this makes us equal, actually,” he says, letting him go just as quickly. “Now clear off, would you?”

X

Since escaping the high table and everyone’s scrutiny, Merlin has spent as much time as possible lurking at the edge of the hall, trying not to draw attention to himself and ruin Gwen’s day with his current inability to look like he’s happy for her. Which he is, really and truly happy for the pair of them, but it’s hard to show it when Lancelot looks like he’s in the process of being eviscerated even as he smiles, and Merlin wishes that he’d had the brains to work out how he feels for Gwaine before he messed up everything between them.

No, it’s really just best if he stays out of the way, allows Arthur and Gwen to have their happiness, and keeps his melancholia to himself as much as possible.

The hand on his arm startles him, since Merlin thought he’d just about managed to make himself invisible by now – not literally (though, come to think of it, he probably could, if he set his mind to it, particularly with his magic as ever-present as it has been since he got it back, but he has more sense than to try it in a room full of people) but in that no one has noticed him in about half an hour. His surprise only increases when he looks down at the hand, checking that it’s actually there, he’s not just imagining it, and finds that he recognises it. In fact, he knows it almost as well as he knows his own.

“Gwaine?” he asks, turning to look at him, checking the hand is actually his, that it’s not Merlin’s sanity giving up the ghost and leaving him with pretty illusions. “What’s up?”

Gwaine grins at him, like he used to, daring and dashing and wild, _promising_ , which sort of strengthens the theory that he’s a figment of Merlin’s imagination. “I was thinking,” he says, with the air of a man who’s used to hearing _first time for everything_ after those three words. He’s still grinning, though, so Merlin doesn’t oblige; he’s more interested in what Gwaine is thinking, what Gwaine is actually making a point of telling him that he’s thinking, than he is in making a joke at Gwaine’s expense.

“I was thinking,” Gwaine repeats, when Merlin stays silent, “And I know it’s late, this, maybe even too late, when I’ve spent so long turning you down, and then with what happened with- And I know I can't just ask you to go to bed with me, that there are walls and barriers and that you probably don't want to right now, with me or with anyone, but…" He stops, whatever smile he had before fading, shaking but still there, and his voice is infinitely softer as he adds, "I wouldn't ever ask, Merlin, but if, in the future, when you're ready, then… If you still want to, then, I mean. I would understand if you… didn't."

He trails off, expression sort of hopeful, sort of waiting to be disappointed. He’s clearly an idiot, though, more than Merlin has ever thought he is, because of course Merlin still wants. Merlin isn’t likely to ever stop wanting, and imagination-run-riot or real-life, he’s not going to turn him down.

“Yes,” Merlin says, smiling at him, all attempts at taking his misery and blending into the wall behind him forgotten. He puts his hand over Gwaine’s, still on his arm, then removes it, holding on tightly. “Yes, I want to. Of course I want to, Gwaine, and not just in the future but now."

"But-"

"No," Merlin says, firm, determined, and something in his tone or his face makes Gwaine shut up and stop protesting. "I'm not a child, Gwaine, and I'm not an idiot, and you do not get to decide if I'm ready or not. I do."

There is so much more he could say here, an eternity of words about trusting Gwaine and needing Gwaine to trust him just as much in return, about choices freely made and how entirely different they are to coercion and threats, and, ultimately, about love, but Arthur's wedding day isn't really the best time for that to come out, not if he wants Gwaine to believe him.

"You might not ask," Merlin says, smiling properly for what feels like the first time in months. "You might not, but I am, and I very much want you to not argue with me about this."

For a long moment, Gwaine just looks at him, and Merlin tries to force all the reassurance he can muster into his smile, into his eyes, and into the twist of Gwaine's fingers between his.

"Right," Gwaine says, and he's smiling again too. "Your choice it is, Merlin. Who am I to argue with that?"

Merlin nods, his heart fluttering, and he's smart enough not to point out how much Gwaine has argued since he got back, not when this agreement is really all he needs to hear. "Okay," he says. "Just let me say goodnight to Gwen and…” No, not Arthur, saying Arthur probably isn’t a thing he wants to do right now, not when _I love you_ is waiting for a time and a place where Gwaine might consider it the truth, “And everyone.”

“Great,” Gwaine says, squeezing his hand briefly before extricating his own. “My room in a bit, then?” He doesn’t wait for a response, instead shaking his head, a hair-toss that would have made pre-lunacy Morgana deeply envious, and walks off in a swirl of red cloak and silver mail, still grinning.

Merlin has to order himself to actually say goodnight to everyone, check Lance isn’t falling apart too much, and then wait at least three minutes before running after him.

X

It’s not until reaches his bedroom that Gwaine realises quite how hard his heart is pounding, how freaking nervous he is, complete with racing pulse, sweating palms, and a feeling that he’s going to embarrass himself terribly. It’s ridiculous, he knows; he’s done this a thousand times, and so many of them with Merlin. There’s no reason at all for him to feel like a virgin on her wedding night, or even like the new bridegroom scared of disappointing her.

He shuts the door behind him and kicks off his boots, leaving them sprawled across the floor for all of a minute before deciding that no, he wants to make something of an effort at being tidy. Merlin might know better than to believe he’s actually like that, and it’s not like he’s really going to care if Gwaine’s room is a mess (his own isn’t exactly any better), but still. Putting his shoes semi-neatly and picking up the clothes – his and Gareth’s, because neither of them cares all that much about putting stuff away – and whatever that are littering his floor is something to do, at least, rather than just brooding anxiously about whether this is really as good an idea as he thought it was mere minutes ago in the hall. He wants it to be, because… Well, it doesn’t really need explaining, does it, but wanting something isn’t all it takes to make it happen.

Clearing up his mess doesn’t stop Gwaine wondering just what Merlin is expecting of him, how far he wants them to go tonight and how he wants to go about getting there, but, on the other hand, it does make Merlin laugh a little when he opens the door to see Gwaine quickly shoving the heap of blankets from on the floor to under his bed.

“You didn’t have to tidy for me,” Merlin says, still half-laughing as he slides the bolt on the door home. “Your room could be knee-deep in mess and I’d still be here.”

Gwaine shrugs, then figures he should probably kiss him before Merlin can start talking (he looks like he wants to) and things get any more awkward.

It has the added benefit of making his nerves pretty much disappear, too.

X

"Tell me to stop," Gwaine says, less than half a breath out of their first kiss. "If this is too much, or too quick, or anything. Just tell me, and we'll stop."

"I'll tell you," Merlin says, even though he's thinking _I won't._ "I'll stop you," he promises, leaning in for a second kiss, because it's what Gwaine needs to hear.

X

_I love you_ , Merlin says silently, with each brush of their lips, with each touch of his hands to Gwaine’s skin. _I love you_ , he thinks, as Gwaine helps them both out of their clothes, mouth still eager against Merlin’s, hands shaking slightly as they picks at knots and slide down trousers, lifting arms for the removal of shirts. _I love you,_ he feels as Gwaine lets him go, backing away until he’s on the bed, everything on display, just waiting for Merlin to join him. _I love you_ , he knows as he slides up beside him, above him, wanting to trace every inch of his skin. _I love you_ , sings his blood and his breath, every single pound of his heart.

And then, for a second, as he presses Gwaine into the mattress, his lips on his neck, just below his ear, Merlin’s heart forgets to beat, forgets to say the words for him, and he has to say them aloud.

“I love you,” he says, and it seems to him to be the most real thing he has ever said.

He doesn’t expect Gwaine to freeze under him, suddenly so much colder than the near-endless winter they’re only just escaping from.

He doesn’t expect Gwaine to push him away.

X

Gwaine’s whole mind stops, completely and utterly, as Merlin’s words spin in the air and in his head. There is nothing he’s wanted more, all these months, than to have Merlin say that to him. _Nothing_.

But not like this, not as a lie, meant for some other man, their king.

Arthur.

Merlin loves Arthur, and Gwaine thought he could forget that just as much as he could let Merlin use him to forget it as well. He thought he could live with it, that he loved Merlin enough that it didn’t matter.

He thought… But hearing Merlin’s words, meant for another man, and…

X

“I can’t do this,” Gwaine says, moving away from Merlin and sitting up. Merlin feels cold, bereft, instantly wants to pull him back in again, but something in Gwaine’s voice as he turns his back stops him. “I thought I could, and I can’t. I thought, you’d be happier, I’d be happier, and it’d be enough.”

Merlin does reach out to him then, puts a hand on Gwaine’s shoulder, because he knows what the something in Gwaine’s voice is and it’s tears. “I don’t-” he says, and Gwaine cuts him off, shakes his hand off before he can say the word _understand_ , even though saying that is a complete lie.

“I’m not him, Merlin. I can’t be him anymore,” Gwaine murmurs and stands, pulling on his trousers. “I’m sorry, Merlin, I really am.”

“Gwaine?” Merlin asks, and he knew Gwaine wouldn't believe him, not as readily as Merlin wishes he would, but he didn't think he'd actually leave. "Please, Gwaine, I-"

“I’m sorry,” Gwaine repeats. “Just- just stay here, Merlin. You don’t have to go, I’ll sleep on Lance’s floor or something.”

He walks away, pausing with his hand on the door handle, just for a moment. “I’m sorry, Merlin,” he says again, and leaves.

For a long moment, one that seems forever and yet lasts no time at all, Merlin is stuck there, in Gwaine’s bed, torn between the fear of going after him, risking his pride and his self with no promise that he can make Gwaine listen to him, and the fear of not. And maybe he can talk to Gwaine tomorrow, or later, maybe there’ll be time in the future to convince him that Merlin actually loves him, not as some stand-in because he can’t have Arthur but as himself, _Gwaine_ , crass and brash and easy and just as good as anyone Merlin has ever met regardless of his imperfections. Maybe there’ll be time, when Gwaine is calmer than he is now, when conversation might be easier.

Maybe there won’t.

X

Gwaine hears a door open before he reaches the end of the corridor, knows it to be his own, even if he can’t hear anything further, not the sound of it closing again, or of Merlin’s boots on the cold floor as he decides not to listen to Gwaine telling him to stay.

“Wait,” Merlin calls after him, voice weak but getting stronger. “Please, just wait.”

Gwaine does, only half-sure why. He doesn’t want to, wants to run as far as he can from how utterly agonising this is, but… But there’s no magic in Merlin’s voice, just his feelings, and Merlin could make him stop, could have dragged Gwaine back to the room without moving a muscle, but he didn’t. He chose not to, and that means something, probably, even if Gwaine doesn’t know what it is.

“I know you’re not him,” Merlin says, loud and simultaneously not. “I know exactly who you are.”

He has to turn then, has to see what the expression on Merlin’s face is, because his opinion of this fact is not identifiable from his words and tone alone. Even so, Gwaine is too surprised to notice it at first; Merlin is standing in the middle of the hall in only a loosely wrapped sheet, apparently unconcerned by how many knights sleep behind these doors, by how many people could find them here, arguing almost naked in a public place.

“Go back inside, Merlin,” he says. “Someone will see you.”

The sincerity in Merlin’s next words is so apparent it is almost painful. “I don’t care,” he answers, smiling like he actually means it. “I don’t care who knows, Gwaine. I lov-”

“I told you not to say that,” Gwaine snaps, and he wants to not be angry, at least not with Merlin, not when he was the idiot who started this again, but he can’t help it. This is everything, and it is _killing_ him.

“Why?” Merlin asks, and the simplicity of the question throws Gwaine slightly, given how far it is from the way he and Merlin usually work, used to work. They beat around the bush, saying everything but the thing that they mean, asking everything but the questions they really want the answers to. Merlin has always been better at directness than Gwaine has, even if Gwaine has never actually lied to him about anything, but it’s still unexpected.

Not quite so much as his answer is, though, which follows Merlin’s question as if Gwaine has no choice in the matter, no control at all over the words leaping from his tongue and tumbling to their deaths.

“Because I want to believe you,” he says. “Couldn’t it just be enough that I was here? You didn’t have to say things I wish were true to get me to stay.”

Gwaine has never known quite how destructive kindness could be until he sees the look on Merlin’s face.

“I’m not,” says Merlin. “Gwaine, I love you.”

X

Merlin understands Gwaine’s reluctance to believe him, because he knows what it is to hope for something so much that it feels like a lie when you finally get it. He waited months for Gwaine to come back, even before he really worked out _why_ he was waiting so desperately, and it’s enough. He gets Gwaine’s thinking, his fear, but he has waited enough.

He doesn’t want to wait however long it takes Gwaine to forgive his honesty now, doesn’t want to let Gwaine think on it for days, weeks, months, only to decide that Merlin is lying, or even for him to decide that he’s not. He doesn’t want to wait.

“I love you,” Merlin repeats, almost surprised by how steady he sounds, holding Gwaine’s eyes even as he steps closer to him. Gwaine doesn’t move, not to advance or retreat; he just watches Merlin move forwards, and the only thing Merlin can describe his expression as is _cautious_ , but it’s not even close to doing it justice. “If I could say anything to make you believe me, I would, Gwaine, but I can’t.”

Gwaine shakes his head, slowly at first but getting more rapid with each step Merlin takes. “Stop,” he tells him, voice firm; Merlin doesn’t, of course, because convincing Gwaine to believe him is what they both need. He adjusts his sheet, holding it up with just one hand, and places the other on Gwaine’s arm.

“I would swear it,” Merlin says, “On anything you wanted, or on everything that is, but that’s not how it works and we both know it. No amount of magic is going to make you any more likely to believe me, and all the oaths in the world won’t change that. I know I can’t make you believe it, but please, Gwaine. Please.”

It’s not working, though, and Merlin can see that, can feel it when he leans down to press his lips to Gwaine’s, when he draws back and Gwaine doesn’t try follow him. “Please,” he says again. “Gwaine, whatever else you think, you know that I would never willingly do anything to hurt you, don’t you?”

Gwaine nods, and if ever a nod can be described as guarded it’s this one; it’s clear, so painfully, perfectly clear, how reluctant he is to commit too much, to commit anything just now. “I know,” he answers anyway, sounding less than confident.

“Right,” Merlin says. “And I know that lying to you about this would hurt you.”

X

Gwaine nods again, because he understands all of this. He knows that, of all the many times Merlin has done something to hurt him, only one of them wasn’t unintentional, an accident, and even then Merlin thought it was for the best. And it’s stupid to think that Merlin can’t work out how much a lie like this is destroying Gwaine, to be given everything he wants but it not be real.

It’s putting the two together that’s the problem, agreeing with the end of the argument. Merlin doesn’t want to upset him. Merlin knows that this will upset him if it’s not true. The only logical conclusion is that it’s true, that Merlin loves him. But it just can’t be right.

“Trust me,” Merlin says. “Please, Gwaine, trust me.”

It’s almost funny how much Gwaine wants to, how much he doesn’t know how. He has always trusted Merlin, since he first met him. He gave up a life he was genuinely happy with, settled down to rules and timetables and all the things Gwaine has spent years laughing at the mere idea of. He didn’t worry when he found out that Merlin had magic, beyond trying to work out how he was supposed to bring him back. When Lancelot was injured, Gwaine couldn’t believe for a second that Merlin had done anything to hurt him deliberately. And even when it came to leaving, he trusted Merlin when he said he’d be happier if they split up (although, really, if he’s looking for occasions when trusting Merlin was a good idea, that really isn’t the best example).

He looks Merlin in the eye, taking a small step backwards in order to do so. Merlin flinches, moves his hand from Gwaine’s arm to clutch the sheet more closely around him, looking so completely sad, and Gwaine knows that he’s interpreting this as rejection, refusal. It is Merlin’s face, the way he visibly draws in on himself, pulls away without moving at all, that convinces Gwaine.

“You love me?” he asks, and it is the most hopeful Gwaine has ever heard himself sound.

It is nothing, though, compared to how Merlin’s face lights up. “Yes,” he says, and his smile is the most glorious thing Gwaine can remember seeing. He has seen a thousand smiles, so many on people more classically beautiful than Merlin, but none of them have ever made him feel like this.

“You love me,” he says again, so much more certain, just to see if Merlin’s expression can possibly look any happier.

“I love you,” Merlin laughs. “I love you.” He kisses Gwaine, sort of, but it is so clumsy when they’re both smiling wide enough to split their faces down the middle, and Merlin can’t move his hands from their place unless he wants to end up butt naked in the middle of the knights’ corridor. “And you love me?”

“That you even need to ask,” Gwaine says, and who gives a damn about propriety and decency and not doing things like this where anyone can see them. “Yours, I said. Not going to change.”

He kisses Merlin again, nothing gentle about it, hungry and enthusiastic and absolutely inappropriate for their location, but when the alternative is not kissing Merlin right now, he couldn’t care less. Merlin steps closer to him – because, somehow, that is possible – then stumbles on the trailing end of his sheet.

He knocks into Gwaine with remarkable force, given that his weight and the practically minuscule distance between them doesn’t allow for a whole lot of momentum to be gathered, and Gwaine wobbles too. He throws out a hand to catch them, wrapping the other around Merlin’s waist to keep him upright, both of which would be perfectly fine if the thing he catches himself on wasn’t a small table with a really quite fancy vase on it; Gwaine and Merlin succeed in not falling, but the vase fails miserably, hitting the floor and shattering loudly.

“Shit,” Gwaine announces. Merlin laughs, and it doesn’t carry anywhere near as much concern as Gwaine would have expected. “If we run, we might be out of sight before someone comes to investigate?”

“Who cares?” Merlin says, kissing Gwaine just as the door closest to them opens. “I love you.” He pulls back, allowing Gwaine to turn far enough to see Elyan leaning out of his doorway, face some combination of shocked and smirking.

“I’m sure everyone else is as happy for you as I am,” he says, definitely settling on a smirk, “But is there any chance you could move this elsewhere? Some of us need our sleep. Also, Merlin, your sheet is slipping.”

Merlin scrambles to better cover himself, ducking behind Gwaine slightly, as though that will make Elyan forget that he’s standing on the corridor wrapped only in a sheet, Gwaine wearing only a pair of half-laced trousers. “Sorry,” Gwaine says, though he reckons it probably doesn’t sound all that sincere since he’s still grinning like a lunatic. “We’ll be going now. Night.”

“Sleep well,” Elyan replies, laughing as he ducks back into his room.

“Back to mine, then?” Gwaine says, pacing backwards down the corridor. “Only, I’m dying to let you get me out of my trousers, and I reckon Elyan probably won’t think this is the best place for it.”

Merlin steps after him, his grin fading a little, replaced by something equally intense, fierce and desperate and desiring enough that Gwaine has to fight back a shiver as he opens the door to his room, reaching out a hand to pull Merlin in after him.

X

Merlin barely has time to close the door before Gwaine is out of his trousers again, standing shamelessly naked in the middle of his room and staring hungrily at Merlin.

Merlin sucks in a breath, staring even though it's only a few minutes since they were last in this position. Nothing’s changed, not really, and anyone else witnessing this (though, really, Merlin's perfectly happy knowing no one else is around) would see exactly the same thing now as before the interruption.

Nothing's different, except it really, really is.

“Get over here, then,” Gwaine says softly, stepping back again, towards the bed, and following him is as necessary as breathing.

Merlin brings the sheet with him, climbing up onto the bed before letting it fall, fairly sure they'll want it for warmth at some point, even if it's not yet. “I'm here,” he says, shuffling forwards until he's close enough to brush his lips over Gwaine’s, kneeling above him, and Gwaine's legs come up to hold him there, his heels pressing against the back of Merlin’s thighs. “I'm here,” he says again, hand curving around the back of Gwaine's neck as he kisses him again, slow and desperate.

Gwaine arches up into him, his hands skimming their way up Merlin's spine to clutch at his shoulders. “Bloody do something already,” he says as they separate for air, like Merlin isn't already plastered over as much of him as he can be.

Merlin shivers, shuffling back only as far as is necessary to slip a hand down between them, delighting in the sounds Gwaine makes, the way Gwaine's hands scrabble against his skin and the sheets, grasping for something to hold on to.

“Better?” he asks, breathing the word against Gwaine's neck. He's pretty sure the indecipherable but probably expletive-laden noise he gets in reply counts as an affirmative, but when Gwaine gives him this look, all fire and desperation, he can't help but continue teasing him. “Try again, love,” he murmurs, in between another open-mouthed kiss to Gwaine's jaw and another deliberately slow, teasing twist of his fingers. “You're not making much sense.”

Gwaine's eyes narrow, just a little, and Merlin recognises the challenge in it, knows it and loves it. He rocks gently against Gwaine while he still can, because that look tends to be followed by Gwaine flipping them over, and it's not like Merlin is at all opposed to the idea. It's Gwaine, and Merlin wants this so much, wants him more than anything, and, “Fuck, Merlin,” Gwaine breathes, the helpless hitch in his voice somehow drawing Merlin even closer to him. “Want-” he breaks off, gasping, one hand tangling in Merlin's hair, the other still floundering wildly amongst the pillows around his head. “I want- fuck, Merlin, _please_ , I- you.”

His words are an incoherent mess, too incomplete to really count as a sentence or a request, but Merlin doesn't need to know what Gwaine is asking for to know the answer. “Anything,” Merlin offers, promises. “Anything you want, Gwaine.”

Gwaine pulls himself up to meet Merlin in another kiss, long and lingering, dragging his teeth over Merlin's lower lip as he drops his head back onto his pillows. “Merlin,” he says, staring up at him. In the dim lighting his eyes are a mirror, reflecting back at Merlin the gold of his irises, and it's only then that Merlin realises how present his magic is, rising up within him until his skin thrums with power and the very air they breathe tastes of enchantment.

He should move back, Merlin knows, should take a moment to catch his breath and rein his magic in, make sure he can hold it captive under his skin rather than let it flow wild between them. He needs to keep it inside, keep it from pressing his claim on Gwaine the way he’s wanted to for months, marking him as Merlin's, his to love and to protect and to wreak vengeance upon any who would do him harm.

“I trust you, Merlin,” Gwaine says, seemingly aware of Merlin readying himself to warn Gwaine how irrepressible his magic is lately. Despite the ragged breaths and the needy groan Merlin's name comes out as, there's not a trace of uncertainty to it, not even a modicum of doubt. “I want you.”

“But-” Merlin starts, even as the part of his heart that controls his power tries to strangle the words in his throat. “I can't-”

“Then don't,” Gwaine says, and finally he seems to have found what he was looking for in the hastily made mess of their bed, pressing a stoppered vial into Merlin's hand. “I want everything.”

“I-”

“Everything,” he repeats, and even the air seems to come alight between them.

X

It feels like singing under his skin, like delighted laughter, exhilarated joy, and it is too much. Too much, too intense, as if he’s stepped into a bath that's much too hot and his body is screaming at him to stop, to back down, back out and run. No person should ever feel like this, Gwaine thinks; their feeble bodies just aren’t made for it. It is _too much_.

And then Merlin murmurs, softly, so softly, “I love you,” and suddenly it isn’t.

X

Merlin wakes, not sure how long he’s slept for, to find Gwaine lying on his side next to him, wide awake and propped up on one elbow, just watching him. It would be creepy, maybe, if it weren’t for the fact that the look in Gwaine’s eyes can only be described as worshipful, and it chills Merlin to the core even as some part of him hopes Gwaine will never look at him in any other way. He knows now why Gwaine said no when he first got back, why he kept saying no, because in saying yes he lets himself be Merlin’s, in heart and body and soul, and Merlin cannot imagine anything so terrifying as belonging to someone who doesn’t belong to you in return. And he wants to; right now there is nothing he wants more than to declare himself to Gwaine, but he can’t.

He can sleep here every night, wake up with Gwaine every morning, tell the whole wide world that they’re together and that he loves Gwaine so much that just imagining going back to a life without him hurts, but he cannot be his. There are things bigger than them, a kingdom and a destiny and Merlin isn’t allowed to let his heart come first anymore, now that his heart and his destiny aren’t one and the same.

“Hey,” Gwaine murmurs, soft and concerned. “What’s this?” he asks, brushing both thumbs under Merlin’s eyes to collect the tears gathering there. Merlin forces his eyes closed, because he cannot keep looking at Gwaine when he’s looking back at him like that. He slumps, resting his forehead in the crook where Gwaine’s neck meets his shoulder, and lets his tears fall.

“I can’t be yours,” he says, and Gwaine’s fingers pause momentarily in combing through his hair. They pick up again quickly, but Merlin doesn’t miss the way his breath catches just a tiny bit and it hurts, somewhere deeper and more real than in his heart, that Gwaine would think he’d tell him he loved him for any reason other than it being true. It hurts even more that he deserves Gwaine’s doubt, and he hurries to explain himself before he can do Gwaine any more harm. “I want to. I want to be yours just as much as I want you to be mine, but I can’t. I have-”

“You have things you have to do,” Gwaine cuts across him, and his breathing is exactly as it should be, smooth and even and unworried again. “I know that, idiot. I know I won’t always come first.” He tugs Merlin’s hair gently, more guiding than pulling, until Merlin obeys, moving back so that Gwaine can see him. “I’ll hate it sometimes, but do you really think I’d love you half as much as I do if you were the sort of person who put what you wanted before what you had to do?”

Merlin smiles, even as another tear drips from his face to land on Gwaine’s cheek. Gwaine brushes it away, then does the same for the few still clinging to Merlin’s eyelashes. “Stop crying, okay? And stop worrying, too, so that we can get some sleep. I’m not going anywhere, love, and as far as I know you’re not either.”

“No,” Merlin agrees. “I’m pretty comfortable right here.” He moves so that he’s mostly lying over Gwaine again, instead of just hovering above him, and brushes his mouth against his. He intends it to be brief, chaste, just a simple goodnight kiss before he rests his head over Gwaine’s heart and sleeps, but he forgets all that when their lips touch and his magic surges back to the surface.

“Or we could do that,” Gwaine groans into his mouth, the words barely distinguishable from one another, wrapping one arm over his back and hooking the other hand under his thigh. Merlin has barely a second to realise what he’s planning and decide to let him before he’s lying flat on his back, Gwaine kneeling between his legs, that look back in his eyes again.

Then again, Merlin thinks he probably looks pretty damn worshipful himself.

X

It's late when Gwaine wakes up properly, later than he's woken up in months. And, yeah, they're not training again, and maybe he and Merlin spent as much of the night awake as they did asleep, but he wasn't expecting it to be almost midday when he's conscious again. He always used to wake up when Merlin got up to take Arthur his breakfast, and even if the king isn't spending hours yelling and battering his knights with swords, he's probably still going to want to eat.

Merlin's still in his bed, though, and a lot more awake than Gwaine is, it seems.

“Mornin’,” Gwaine says lazily, opening his eyes as Merlin traces idle patterns across his chest. His hands are cool – not cold like they often are, just cool, and it's only noticeable because Gwaine is still warm from their blankets and fuzzy with sleep.

“Hey,” Merlin answers, barely more than a whisper, then places his other hand on Gwaine's shoulder when he starts to sit up. “Don't move for a moment,” he continues, face hovering over Gwaine's, and the look on his face is intense enough that Gwaine realises the lack of volume is less through choice than it is from strain. “I'm almost done.”

Gwaine frowns up at him questioningly, but he doesn't move, not yet, waiting as Merlin continues the patterns that apparently aren't actually all that idle, if the way Gwaine's skin tingles in their wake is any indication.

“It's a spell,” Merlin says, drawing a spiral over Gwaine's heart then continuing diagonally downwards over his ribs. There's another spiral as he dips over onto Gwaine's side, rebounding back sharply and returning to swoop under and then around his belly button.

“I figured,” Gwaine answers, trying not to breathe too deeply and mess up the new map of sweeping curves and precise angles Merlin is painting his body with; his trust in Merlin is implicit and absolute, but his magic is occasionally a little unpredictable, and Gwaine would rather not die because some sudden movement on his part causes one of the lines to go wrong. “What's it for?”

“Protection.” Merlin lifts his hand away from Gwaine's chest, eyes flaring gold, and the lines he's drawn flare up as well, a flash of brightness that leaves Gwaine's vision swimming with an extraordinary aftermath of vibrant colours. “You can move now,” he adds, sitting up straight and waiting for Gwaine to do the same before continuing. “It's nowhere near foolproof, and it won't do anything against really strong magic. Or against normal weaponry, actually, when I think about it, but it should keep you safe from anything the average sorcerer is likely to throw at you.”

“Oh,” Gwaine manages, the words slow to make their way through his brain.

Merlin smiles, sort of, and it's full of apologetic uncertainty. “Sorry,” he says, no longer looking Gwaine in the eye. “I should have asked first, I know, but I- If anything ever happened to you because I was too busy trying to protect Arthur to stop it, I don't know what I'd do, and I didn't want to take the chance that you might refuse it.”

“Oh,” Gwaine says again, and even though the glow has sunk into his skin and the lines have vanished without leaving anything to show they were ever there, he can still feel them. “Merlin, love, you have my full permission to do any spell at all that may one day save my life, as long as it won't endanger yours in the process, okay?”

Merlin gives him this look, like Gwaine has somehow said something impressive, even though he hasn't, at all, and he's almost certain it shouldn't be something Merlin doesn't already know. “Okay,” he says slowly, resolute and ridiculously grateful. “Thank you.”

Gwaine tries not to stare at him, despite how completely baffled he is (Merlin's the one who has just cast the potentially life-saving spell, so Gwaine isn't at all sure why he's being thanked). “Sure,” he drawls, then decides to change the conversation entirely. “Shouldn't you be running around getting Arthur food or something?”

“The day after his wedding?” Merlin gives an exaggerated shudder, then pushes away their blankets and stands up, locating his clothes and beginning to get dressed. “There's no way I'm going anywhere near his and Gwen's bedroom today unless they explicitly ask me to and one of them is standing in the hallway next to me.”

“Fair point,” Gwaine concedes, though that doesn't explain why Merlin is throwing clothes in his general direction. “Are we going somewhere?”

Merlin, now fully clothed and attempting to restore some kind of order to his hair, grins. “Well, since some lazy lug slept through breakfast, I thought it might be a good idea to show up early for lunch. And,” he pauses, picking up the key Gwaine first noticed him carrying the day before yesterday, then blushes noticeably.

“Arthur gave me this to give to Gareth,” he continues after a moment, looking somewhere between uncertain and uncomfortable. “So that he could have his own room, I mean, rather than sharing with Lancelot when I- if someone’s here with you.”

Gwaine finishes lacing his trousers and just looks at him, not sure if he ought to be exasperated or amused or anything else, for that matter. “When you,” he says, with what he feels is impressive finality, and gets what might be the world’s dopiest, most idiotic, most amazing smile in response.

“When I,” Merlin answers, and that is that.

X

Gwaine pauses outside the dining hall, making as if to separate their hands, and Merlin really isn't okay with that. Pretty much anyone whose opinion matters already knows and doesn't care, anyone who does care can go to hell, and maybe there's a little bit of Merlin that wants to make sure his claim is well and truly staked, after seeing Gwaine with Mithian and Elena two days ago.

“Merlin,” Gwaine says quietly, and Merlin doesn't need to listen to know what he's going to say.

“I don’t care,” he says, refusing to look away from Gwaine. “Do you?”

Gwaine looks back, and Merlin thinks it's probably his _hunting for weakness_ look, though in this case it's got to be the truth he's looking for. He finds it, too, or so Merlin assumes, because Gwaine grins his craziest grin, loops his arms around Merlin's neck, and proceeds to snog the living daylight out of him.

Merlin puts an unhealthy level of consideration into skipping lunch completely and dragging Gwaine back up to their room ( _their_ room, and just thinking of it as theirs makes Merlin feel a little giddy) for the rest of forever, is about to suggest it when someone in the vicinity clears their throat loudly.

“Are you two going to make a habit of this?” Elyan asks, sounding as amused today as he did last night.

Merlin smiles into the kiss, feels and then sees Gwaine answer it with one of his own as they separate. “Sorry,” he says, stepping back until Gwaine has to lower his arms and let Merlin go.

“I'm not,” Gwaine says, smirking his best and brightest _please punch me_ smirk, and Merlin elbows the silly git before he can get himself in trouble. “What?” Gwaine continues, turning to look at Merlin again. “I'm incredibly not sorry.”

“It's not too late for me to change my mind about us,” Merlin mutters, though it really is, and judging by Gwaine's ever-broadening grin he knows it. He just knows Gwaine’s going to say something, too, and as much as Merlin loves seeing him this happy, there's only so many smart remarks he can get away with. He takes Gwaine's hand again, pulling him far enough to the side for Elyan to go past them into the dining hall, then makes to follow him.

Gwaine stays still, resisting just enough to keep them outside the hall, and Merlin waits until the door closes behind Elyan before asking, “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Gwaine says, though he's not grinning anymore, looking at Merlin with an unnaturally serious expression. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page this time, before we let absolutely everyone know about us.”

“What page is that?” Merlin asks, a little bit wary, but after all the false starts between them… After everything, there's a part of him that worries maybe Gwaine will say that he does care, that this time he's the one who wants to keep them a secret.

“The one where this is it for me.”

Merlin feels his heart thudding hard against his ribs, the same way it did last night when his magic surged within him, between them, and he has to pause a moment before answering in order to hold it all in. “Yes,” he says, entwining his fingers with Gwaine's and taking a step back towards the door, not looking away from him. “That's the one.”

X

After the long, near endless winter, spring arrives suddenly, bringing with it torrential rain that washes away any last trace of snow and turns the streets of Camelot to steady streams. Actual streams become rivers, while the rivers themselves burst their banks and just keep going, raging white where once they ran calm. There are reports of flooding at least once a week, and many more requests for assistance with repairs than Uther ever received.

Arthur sends his knights to answer every one, even helping himself occasionally, when there's nothing more pressing to deal with (or, in Merlin's opinion, when he gets bored with the confines of his castle). Whatever the reason, his people love him for it the way Merlin always knew they would, and together, the kingdom weathers the turning of the seasons remarkably well.

Training returns to being an outdoor activity ( _War doesn't wait for good weather,_ Mer _lin, and nor shall we,_ Arthur drawls, when Merlin dares to question the wisdom of daily bouts of extreme mud-wrestling), bringing with it a lot of bruises, the occasional twisted ankle, and an awful lot of laundry, in addition to the two, sometimes three sets of armour Merlin takes responsibility for (Gwaine, whilst perfectly capable of cleaning his own armour, can rarely be bothered, and Merlin would prefer it if his lover didn't die as a result of rusting chain links). Even so, there's a general air of enjoyment to the proceedings that being smeared from head to toe in muck cannot quite suppress, and Merlin takes to preparing Arthur's bath before training, using his magic to keep it heated for the hours they are all outside; it doesn't exactly take much energy to do, and since it leaves he and Gwaine free to return to their room and a bath that inevitably ends with more water on the floor than in the tub, the tiny waste of power is a sacrifice he's more than willing to make.

Food goes back to being in somewhat short supply, now that the festivities are over and Elena's wedding gifts have been well and truly devoured, but there's a hopefulness to everyone that wasn't there before the rains. The weather is warming daily, the fields dry out at a slow but steady pace, and it's not long before the ploughs are out and the first seeds are sown, the people of Camelot praying to any gods that may be listening for them to take.

The first hunt of the year is a glorious affair, darkened only by the fact that Merlin collapses the moment he steps beyond the city walls.


	6. Part Six

“He’ll be okay,” Gwen says, as Gwaine paces the length of Gaius’ workroom and she tries her hardest to stay out of his way. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Yeah,” Gwaine mutters, somehow managing to negotiate the cluttered room without ever turning his gaze from the door to Merlin’s bedroom, though by this point he has had ample time to learn the route. “It’s nothing,” he echoes, and it is perfectly clear who his words are intended to convince. “It’s got to be nothing.”

He falls into silence again, looking so distraught that Gwen hurts for him, has to hold herself back from reaching out to him, at least in part because she’s not sure he’ll stop pacing long enough to accept comfort from her. If only there was someone else here, she thinks – Lancelot, maybe, or Gareth, though from what she’s seen and heard Gwaine is far too busy trying to take care of his brother to allow him to return the favour – but there isn’t, and Gwen understands why. As much as Merlin means to them all, the king and his closest advisors abandoning a hunting trip out of concern for a servant displays a level of vulnerability the kingdom can ill afford at the moment, when supplies are still on the short side.

“He just dropped,” Gwaine says, only moments later, his pacing reaching the door only for him to whirl around with unnecessary vigour. “It’s got to be something. People don’t just collapse like that.”

“That’s true,” Gwen says, with as much patience as she can muster. “But Merlin’s not really a normal person, is he?”

Her attempt at reassurance seems to fall somewhat short of the mark, if the way Gwaine rounds on her is any indication, and there’s something that could be called fury on his face, were it not so thoroughly drenched in terror.

“He’s not,” he agrees, though his tone suggests anything other than acquiescence. “Merlin is probably the most powerful man to ever walk the earth, and since whatever it was attacked him and left the rest of us alone, that means someone else knows, and they’re after him personally. I don’t know about you, _your majesty_ , but if I’m taking on someone that powerful, I’m going to make damn sure I succeed first time.”

The anger that floods the start of his speech is gone by the end of it, leaving behind only a shell of a man, and Gwen cannot bring herself to reprimand him for it. “But they haven’t, Gwaine,” she says, taking his sudden stillness as her cue to approach. She doesn’t hug him the way she would Merlin or Elyan, he’s still too much a stranger to her for the gesture to be either comfortable or natural, but she does place a hand on his arm, hoping he will take some small measure of reassurance from it. “They’ve already failed, and as soon as Merlin wakes up, he can figure out what happened and you and Arthur can take it in turns to hit the perpetrator.”

Gwaine looks at her, and Gwen can feel his arm twitch under her hand, the muscles trembling with the effort it’s taking him to stay still. He doesn’t so much look angry as he does wild, barely under control, and underneath it all is a vulnerability that Gwen would never have thought to see in him, even after everything Merlin has told her.

“And if he doesn’t?” he asks, the words barely more than a whisper, his desperate need for reassurance so readily apparent that Gwen can’t help but tell him exactly what she’s been thinking, whether or not Arthur will thank her for making such a promise.

“Merlin is my best friend in the entire world, Gwaine, not to mention the most valuable ally our kingdom has. I swear to you that if this is something beyond Gaius’ skill to heal, I will personally go to the ends of the earth to find a way to bring him back to us, regardless of the cost. I’ll go to Morgana, if that’s what it takes.”

Gwaine grimaces, perhaps at the thought of asking the kingdom’s greatest enemy for aid, though Gwen thinks he looks a little mollified. Not a lot, and the pacing shows no sign of stopping any time soon, but it’s better than nothing, she tells herself.

X

It’s dark before Merlin wakes up, and Gwaine is well and truly losing his mind.

Gaius finally finishes whatever the fuck tests he’s doing and allows Gwaine to see Merlin, and Gwaine has spent the hours since then sat beside Merlin’s bed and pretending the tight grip he has on Merlin’s hand is for Merlin’s sake rather than his.

“Wake up, you git,” he mutters for what has to be the thousandth time, because Gaius can’t identify anything wrong with Merlin so clearly he’s just being an inconsiderate tosser who wants Gwaine to die from worry. “Wake _up_ ,” he says again, this time with less irritation (it was never genuine anyway, though, just an attempt not to sound as pathetic as he feels right now) and a great deal more desperation. “Merlin, please. I need you to wake up.”

Merlin, unsympathetic sod that he is, doesn’t so much as twitch, but then he hasn’t any of the other times Gwaine has tried begging him into consciousness either. “Please,” he says again, lifting Merlin’s hand between his own and resting his forehead on them. “Please, love,” he says to Merlin’s blanket, and goes back to waiting again.

He doesn’t sleep, not really, and he knows when Arthur gets back from the hunt and interrogates Gwen and Gaius about what might be wrong with Merlin and how they might go about fixing it, knows when Lance comes in some time after sunset and wraps a blanket around his shoulders, knows each time Gaius comes in to check Merlin’s forehead for fever and his breathing and pulse for irregularities. He knows, but he really doesn’t care, doesn’t start caring about anything until Merlin’s hand twitches under his.

Gwaine opens his eyes immediately, sitting up and studying Merlin for another sign that he’s about to wake up. There’s nothing for an awfully long time, just Merlin’s slow, steady, empty-shell breathing, and Gwaine’s beginning to think maybe he imagined it, maybe it’s just his frantic hope that Merlin is on the verge of consciousness getting to him.

And then, so slowly, Merlin’s eyes start to move under his closed lids, flicking from side to side for a moment before opening. He blinks sleepily a few times, then yawns wide, like he’s just waking up from an idle afternoon nap, and that, Gwaine thinks, is just freaking typical.

“Gods, Merlin,” he says, and his voice is so wretchedly relieved. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”

Merlin looks at him, wide-eyed and full of wonder, raising the hand Gwaine isn’t clinging to in desperation and pressing it to his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, and Gwaine can’t help but nuzzle into his hand, turning his head to press his lips against Merlin’s palm. Merlin smiles, sweeping back the strands of hair that Gwaine has long since stopped trying to keep out of his eyes, and pushes himself upright.

“I need you to get Arthur,” he continues, as Gwaine fusses with his blankets and attempts to arrange a pillow behind his back, despite how unwilling Merlin is to cooperate with his caretaking.

“But-” Gwaine begins, since that’s way better than _no freaking way on earth am I leaving you right now_.

“Gwaine,” Merlin says, and his voice is soft, kind, and absolutely unflinching. “I know what happened, and I’m fine, I promise. I’ll tell you everything, but I need to tell Arthur as well and since I doubt you’re going to be happy with me going there, you’re going to have to bring him here, okay?”

Gwaine searches his brain for another option, but, as per far too often, Merlin seems to be right. There’s no way he’s letting the man who blacked out this morning go traipsing around the castle, it’s not fair to send Gaius (though Gwaine does let himself consider it for a little too long), and he’s fairly sure part of why Lance brought him a blanket however many hours ago was to say he was turning in for the night.

“Fiiiiine,” he says, though it takes a moment and another stern look from Merlin for him to release Merlin’s hand and stand up. “I won’t be long,” Gwaine adds. “And don’t you dare black out again while I’m gone.”

“I’ll do my best,” Merlin answers, though his smile is unconvincing enough that Gwaine makes his way through the castle at a sprint.

X

It actively causes Gwaine pain to have to wait outside Arthur and Gwen’s door for an answer to his knock, but since the door is locked, he doesn’t really have a choice.

After what feels like an hour of repeated hammering, Arthur finally opens the door, the expression on his face one of deep irritation. He’s barefoot and bare-chested, his hair dishevelled and exhaustion plainly on display.

“Merlin’s awake,” Gwaine says, before Arthur has the chance to ask why he’s there (though, really, Gwaine has to hope he’s smart enough to figure it out for himself). “He needs to talk to you, immediately.”

For a moment, all Arthur does is look at him, and Gwaine has a whole load of insults ready to go, foul language and fury included; Merlin has spent the entire day unconscious, and Gwaine is going to drag the king down there kicking and screaming if that’s what it takes.

Fortunately, such measures aren’t necessary, because Arthur nods, tersely. “One minute,” he says, closing the door in Gwaine’s face without another word.

X

While they wait for Gwaine and Arthur to arrive, Gaius engages in his ritual of prodding and poking and asking intrusive questions, finishing up with a declaration that Merlin seems to be absolutely fine (which, as it happens, is exactly what Merlin told him before the examination began).

“You’re not a physician, Merlin,” Gaius says, when Merlin reminds him of this. “Forgive me if I thought a second opinion was required.”

“Yes, but I was right,” Merlin answers, less from a desire to be argumentative than because it’s something to say, something to keep Gaius from asking why Merlin fainted until Gwaine returns with Arthur, because he really doesn’t want to explain this more than once.

“Yes, Merlin,” Gaius says, with a sigh that sounds so old and so weary that Merlin can’t help but reach out to him, folding his hand loosely around Gaius’ liver-spotted one.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says. “For worrying you,” he continues, then amends it slightly when Gwaine, Arthur and Gwen walk into the room. “I’m sorry for worrying all of you.”

Gwen smiles tiredly, looking like she’d object to Merlin’s apology if only she wasn’t so tired, while Arthur gives him a look that quite clearly says _who says anyone was worried about you?_ It’s somewhat ruined by the fact that both he and his wife are in their nightclothes, Gwen wearing slippers and one of Arthur’s cloaks over her nightgown, Arthur in trousers and a shirt and boots that definitely don’t come from the same pair; Merlin would tease him for it, if it weren’t for the fact that Gwaine is already across the room and clinging limpet-like to Merlin’s other hand.

“Fucking will be sorry,” Gwaine mutters. The journey to and from Arthur’s rooms seems to have helped him regain a little composure, perhaps, but not enough to keep him from sounding a little petulant as he adds, “You said you’d tell me what happened if I got Arthur.”

“And it’d better be important,” Arthur says. “I was having a perfectly pleasant dream until you sent your buffoon to wake me, Merlin.”

Gwaine twists to look at him, still not releasing Merlin’s hand, and if it weren’t for the fact that he’s got an argument to avert, Merlin might have something to say about the lack of circulation to his fingers.

“It was a curse,” he says, before Gwaine can come up with some kind of punishable retort to throw at Arthur. “Or is, rather.”

“You sai-”

“I’m _fine_ , Gwaine,” Merlin interrupts, knowing from Gwaine’s silence that he’s guessed the end of his objection correctly. “At least, I’m as fine as any of us will be. It’s a curse on the land, not aimed at me. This was just the first time in months that I’ve gone far enough beyond the walls to sense it.”

He pauses a moment, wanting to give Arthur time to brace himself before explaining how bad this is, but Gwen has already got there.

“The crops?” she says, any sign of her tiredness gone. “This curse is what ruined the harvest last year?”

“Yes,” Merlin answers quietly, and it’s a strange time to remember his attempted teasing from the day Gwaine left, the day he first learned of the crop failures across Camelot. Arthur meets his eyes, and Merlin can tell he’s thinking of it too, knows that he’ll soon be wishing just as hard as Merlin is that this was as simple as a dead unicorn and a kingdom brought back to life through the power of a pure heart.

He sees the moment Arthur figures it out, the way the humour in his expression drains away. “Morgana,” he says, and Merlin understands the betrayal he feels. It’s foolish, because Morgana has been their enemy for so long; it’s no longer a surprise that she’s trying to destroy Camelot, and they ought to know better than to be disappointed by the lengths she’s willing to go to.

“Morgana,” Merlin confirms tiredly.

There’s a long moment of silence, so heavy with grief that even Gwaine doesn’t break it. He didn’t know Morgana before, but for the rest of them she was a friend, a sister; she might not actually be dead, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t mourning a girl who was brave and good and constantly willing to put herself in danger to protect innocent lives.

The girl they loved is gone, and the woman who remains, so unbelievably different from who she was, will never be anything other than their enemy.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Gwen says quietly, stepping closer to her husband. She links their hands together, leaning her forehead on his shoulder, and Merlin’s so glad she’s here, because Arthur has to need her support right now.

“We knew this was coming,” Arthur says eventually, though he doesn’t step away the way he would with anyone else. “The question is what you can do about it.”

It takes Merlin far too long to realise this is directed at him, even if it is the first time they’ve faced a threat like this since Arthur learned of his magic. “I…?”

“Yes, _Mer_ lin, you,” Arthur says, though the sarcasm seems to take him a little more effort than it usually does. “I’m assuming this curse isn’t going to just go away on its own, so unless you know of another sorcerer who might be willing to help, it rather looks like you’re what we’ve got.”

Merlin stares at him, feeling a little stupid, but his plan hadn’t really gone beyond telling Arthur about the curse. It doesn’t have to, normally, because once Arthur has all the facts he tends to make his own decisions while Merlin and Gaius go behind his back trying to find a solution that will actually work, and so far Merlin hasn’t got one.

“We’ll find something, Arthur,” he manages eventually, then feels the need to provide something of a warning. “It may take a few days, but we’ll find something.”

Arthur nods, looking just as exhausted as Merlin feels. “Start in the morning,” he instructs, though Merlin’s pretty sure neither Gaius nor Gwaine has any intention of allowing anything other than that. “You’re excused from your duties until a solution is found, Merlin, and if you have need of any further resources…” He trails off, as if suddenly aware of the fact that Merlin and Gaius are already the closest thing to an expert on magic that Camelot has.

“I believe the library may have some texts of use, if Geoffrey can be persuaded to part with them,” Gaius answers, clearly taking pity on him, since Merlin has already liberated most things related to magic. “I’ll take a look first thing tomorrow, while Merlin starts on the books we’ve got here.”

“I’ll let him know you’re to have anything you need,” Arthur says, then just stands there looking a little helpless, but then having to ask Merlin to save the kingdom has to be just as disconcerting for him as it is for Merlin to actually be asked.

Before Arthur can start issuing commands in order to lessen his awkwardness, Gwen straightens up, taking a small step away from him and towards the door. “We’ll let you get some rest, Merlin,” she says, subtly guiding Arthur from the room. “Goodnight, Gaius, Gwaine.”

“I’ll see you out,” Gaius answers, standing up and following them from the room. “Sleep well, Merlin,” he says, his tone just as pointed as the way he leaves the door slightly ajar behind him. He continues talking to them, saying something to Arthur about sending a message when he’s ready to speak to Geoffrey, but Merlin has mostly stopped listening, too preoccupied with the way Gwaine is looking at him.

“I’m okay,” Merlin says, his voice low, trying to keep this conversation just between the two of them. “I was overwhelmed, that’s all. It won’t happen again.”

Whatever brave face Gwaine had managed to put on when the others were in the room is gone, now that there’s no one left to pretend for, but he doesn’t say anything for a long time, doesn’t do anything but stare. Merlin can’t help but notice the shadows under his eyes, the weary slump of his shoulders, and he wants nothing more than to fix it, to return to Gwaine the bright, easy lightness they all felt this morning.

Before Merlin can find anything close to the right words, Gwaine lets go of his hand, leaning down to pick at the knots in his shoelaces, sliding his boots under Merlin’s bed before standing up. “Budge up,” he says, and something about him is so insecure that Merlin doesn’t protest, shuffling over to the very edge of the bed.

Even so, there’s really not enough room for two, and it takes some careful manoeuvring before they’re both lying down, Merlin on his back with Gwaine curled half next to and half on top of him. His head is pillowed on Merlin’s shoulder, his hand over Merlin’s heart, and Merlin wraps his arms around him, one hand resting on Gwaine’s back while the other combs through his hair, again and again.

“I thought you were dying,” Gwaine mumbles into Merlin’s shirt. “You were dying, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

Merlin’s heart aches at how lost he sounds, as though Merlin dying is the worst thing he can imagine, more terrible than both the curse threatening to starve them all and the confrontation with Morgana that they now know needs to be sooner rather than late. “Not yet,” he promises, because it’s the closest thing to _never_ he can manage without it being a lie, and if he could live a safe, danger free life, he would. It would be so terribly boring, and the part of Merlin that _needs_ to use his gift to help people, to protect them, would be forever unfulfilled, but if it would keep the man he loves from sounding like this, he’d do it.

He can’t, though, and Gwaine would never ask it of him, just as he’d never ask Gwaine to hang up his sword and leave all future battles to someone else. They’re fighters, both of them, as is everyone dear to Merlin in this city, and the war isn’t won yet.

“I’m okay, Gwaine,” Merlin says again, turning his head slightly to brush his lips against Gwaine’s temple. “I promise I’ll be around long after you get tired of me.”

“Not gonna happen,” Gwaine answers, and that’s a promise, too. “Never, ever happening. You’re stuck with me.”

Merlin smiles, presses another kiss to Gwaine’s forehead, and says, “Go to sleep, love. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

X

Despite the fact that Gwaine’s pretty sure he fell asleep on top of Merlin, he wakes up alone, a cocoon of blankets wrapped carefully around him. Braving the chill of Merlin’s room, he untangles one arm enough to slide his hand over the mattress, trying to gauge how long Merlin’s been up for by how much body heat is retained there.

The sheets are just as cold as the air, indicating only what Gwaine already knows: Merlin woke up some time ago, managed to worm his way out of the bed without waking Gwaine, then tucked him in again, and Gwaine isn’t entirely sure if all the effort he must have gone to is sweet or just a little bit overbearing.

Either way, it’s morning, and since Merlin isn’t in bed with him, there’s not much point in staying there any longer. Gwaine gets up, quickly putting on what few articles of clothing he shed yesterday, then opens the door, walking down the steps into the welcome warmth and decidedly unwelcome chaos of Gaius’ workroom.

“Hi,” Merlin says distractedly as Gwaine approaches him, barely glancing up from the house-sized book on the table in front of him. Gwaine tries not to be offended, because the curse that had Merlin unconscious all of yesterday and is going to starve them all to death is one of those catastrophically terrible things that really ought to come before his ego. He fails, but that’s neither here nor there, and Gwaine has a more immediate priority than the big starvation problem.

“Morning, love,” he says, as Merlin goes back to his book. “Did you have breakfast yet?”

Merlin looks up slowly, blinking several times like a man pulled from a dream before speaking. “I’m not really hungry.”

Gaius grumbles indistinctly under his breath, which Gwaine takes to mean he’s not the first person to tell Merlin he needs to eat today. Gwaine has options Gaius doesn’t, though, and while Gwaine’s not going to play his trump card and threaten Merlin with complete and total abstinence while Gaius is in the room, it’s not the only one in his hand.

“Merlin,” he says, as firmly as he can manage, then waits until Merlin pauses reading and looks up at him, his index finger pressed against the page to mark which paragraph he’s up to. “You haven’t eaten since this time yesterday. Don’t tell me you’re not hungry, because I know damn well that you are, and you’re coming to breakfast with me even if I have to carry you there.”

The look he gets in answer is equal parts petulance and indignation, and Gwaine realises a moment too late that if Merlin really doesn’t want to eat, Gwaine is physically incapable of making him. Any attempt to do so will only end in tears at best, Gwaine being turned into a toad at worst (both of which he’d quite like to avoid if at all possible) and, really, ruthless emotional blackmail seems like a much better idea.

“Please, Merlin,” he says, deliberately sounding as pitiful as possible. “I wasn’t the only one terrified for you yesterday. Come to breakfast, stay long enough that everyone knows you’re okay, and then you can come back to your books. For them, and for me, _please_?”

Merlin just rolls his eyes, looking back down at his book like he thinks ignoring him is going to be enough to get Gwaine to give up. It’s not, of course, which Merlin damn well knows, and it only takes a few moments of Gwaine staring at him with slumped shoulders and his most pathetic pout on his face before Merlin sighs loudly, closing his book with enough force that Gaius tuts at him, then stands up.

“Fine,” he says, smiling enough to take the edge off what would otherwise be pretty harsh words. “If it means you’ll shut up and let me work in peace for the rest of the day, I’ll come with you.”

Gwaine drops the pathetic act and gives Merlin his very best Look, not sure how far he ought to push his luck, but he figures he’s probably got a little further to go. “Lunch and dinner, too,” he adds, “And you’ll come to bed at a decent hour, otherwise I’ll come get you.”

Merlin answers with a Look of his own, though it’s less the sternness Gwaine is going for than it is an exasperation almost bordering on fond.

“The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back, Merlin,” Gaius points out, his tone making it pretty clear which side he’s taking in the _make sure Merlin lives a long, happy,_ healthy _life_ argument. “If we’ve survived almost a year under this curse, I’m quite sure you can take a little time to eat and sleep.”

Sighing, Merlin wedges a scrap of parchment between the pages of his book before flipping it closed. “You win,” he huffs as he stands up, still sounding fond. “Let’s go.”

X

Much to Merlin’s surprise, Gwaine manages not to be horrendously distracting over the course of the day. It makes sense to begin with, because after breakfast he gives Merlin a kiss that lasts a moment too long (it’s been long enough that their friends have mostly stopped commenting each time that happens, something that Merlin’s really quite pleased about) before heading off to training while Merlin goes back to his research.

A couple of hours later, Gwaine returns, at which point Merlin expects his steady progress (sort of, if not in the sense where he’s managed to discover anything useful, then at least in that he’s managed to skim through the rest of the book he was reading before breakfast) to go horribly awry.

However, rather than launching into the predicted series of abstract, awfully diverting questions, Gwaine just sits on the bench beside Merlin and reaches for one of the books in the centre of the table. “Is there something in particular I should be looking for?”

Merlin stares at him, mildly dumbfounded. It’s not that he’s at all surprised Gwaine is here – Merlin knows better than to expect Gwaine to be anywhere else, after yesterday, and the short time Gwaine was at training is about the only time alone Merlin had thought he’d have today – but he didn’t think he’d be here with the intention of studying.

“Not really,” he manages, while Gaius gives him a look that seems to convey _he’s your partner, Merlin, you figure out what to do with him._ “Anything about the harvest, I guess, or death spells, maybe. Curses that reference food, I wouldn’t rule out unicorns or other magical creatures, and then there’s various nature deities out there who could maybe be called upon to work a curse like that one. Hegemone, Fjörgyn, Demeter, Gaia, maybe someone like the Green Man, Bacchus or Cernunnos, but if they were going down that route I think Morgana and Morgause would probably have more luck with a goddess, they tend to have more sympathy with scorned women. And then there’s the death gods, ones like Samhain, Tuoni, Styx, Hades. Nemesis, I’m sure the vengeance thing would appeal to Morgana, not to mention the Morrígan, Furies, Keres, Valkyries…”

Merlin trails off, seeing the look Gwaine is giving him, all wide-eyed wariness at the list of possible causes Merlin has just reeled off, which is perfectly understandable; Merlin was similarly overwhelmed earlier, when Gaius returned from the library with an armful of books, announcing his arrival with _there are more where those came from, I’ll need your help to get them when we’ve finished with these_.

“Okay,” Gwaine says after a moment, sounding pretty grateful Merlin hasn’t picked up again. “So, what you’re saying is, it could be pretty much anything?”

“Basically? Yeah, that’s about what we’ve got.”

X

Gwaine drags his way through a good hundred pages before lunchtime, most of it detailed plant-talk where he understands maybe seven words in every ten. It’s boring as anything, a lot of drivel about soil conditions, planting times and pollination that Gwaine has to force himself not to skim past too quickly on the off-chance it’s hiding something useful, but as far as he can tell, the closest thing to magic in there is a few paragraphs about fertility charms and some vague, portentous guff what might happen if they’re improperly constructed.

He slides the book across to Merlin anyway, because even if it’s almost certainly useless Gwaine would prefer it if someone who actually knows about this shit reads it over before he dismisses it completely.

“No,” Merlin says after a few moments of reading, sounding regretful (he and Gaius are having just as little luck, it seems). “These things are mostly trinkets, they couldn’t fix this, and the magic at work here is way too malevolent to just be a charm gone wrong.”

“Figured as much, yeah,” Gwaine answers, holding his hand out for Merlin to give him the book back. “Come on, I can probably get through another twenty or so pages before they start serving lunch.”

X

Gwen has never dined in the knights’ dining hall before tonight, has never really felt like she would be welcome there. Merlin has been able to get away with it since they retook Camelot from Morgana, partly because he doesn’t seem to care what anyone other than his friends thinks of him (and, she’s sure, also because Gwaine would take it upon himself to skewer anyone who dared to say anything about it), but Gwen has never been as unflinchingly confident as he is.

Now, though, she is queen, and she has to stop being cowed by the possibility that some of the highborn knights may silently disapprove of her presence. She can eat in the royal chambers, as she and Arthur tend to do most nights, or in the great hall, or in the bloody dungeons if it pleases her, and whatever they may wish to say about it, not a man, woman or child has the power to stop her.

Gwen keeps this thought firmly in mind as she opens the door, doing her best to ignore the way every single conversation ceases when she enters the room. It’s impossible not to be unnerved by it, and by the way all eyes – knights’ and servants’ alike – follow her as she joins the queue for food, but she straightens her spine and holds her head high, refusing to let their judgement sway her. The reminder that she has the power to execute anyone she chooses helps (she never would, of course, because such an overreaction would be both utterly immoral and horribly undignified, but the fact remains that she _could_ ), as does the knowledge that there are at least a few people in the room who won’t object to her presence.

Conversation mostly resumes while she waits for food, and by the time she reaches the front of the queue Gwen can almost pretend her presence is nothing out of the ordinary.

The young woman serving offers her a faint smile, gaze respectfully lowered as she hands over a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread. “Milady,” she says, barely more than a whisper, and Gwen forces herself to smile in return, pretending she can’t remember them working together to change Morgana’s sheets or gossiping and laughing as they scrubbed clothes side by side.

“Thank you, Enid,” she says, and although she truly does love Arthur, it hurts that she’s lost just as much as she’s gained from her marriage to him. She would have considered them friends, less than a year ago, and now… There’s really only one servant who is willing to risk being friends with royalty, and he’s the reason she’s here today.

“Milady,” Enid says a second time, bobbing a curtsey at her.

It wouldn’t do for the queen to sigh over a servant showing her due respect, Gwen tells herself, so she holds it back, nodding at Enid before crossing the room to the table where Elyan and their friends are seated.

The knights shuffle around as she approaches, making enough room for her to place her dinner on the table and sit down. It’s a little cosy, her perch between Percival on her left and Sir Leon on her right, but not uncomfortably so, and if Gwaine’s obsessive concern yesterday is any indication, it probably won’t be all that long before he hauls Merlin down here to eat.

For a moment, they just look at her, expressions varying between somewhat wary and vaguely curious. Gwen tears small chunks from the bread, dunking it in her soup, and wonders how long it’ll be before someone asks why she’s there, though from the absence of concerned interrogation she assumes they realise this is nothing serious, or at least not immediately so.

Sure enough, the first question, from her brother, is not _what’s wrong?_ but, “Where’s Arthur?”

“Down at the training field,” Gwen says, refusing to let them see how much this concerns her; Arthur has been outside battering at dummies since petitions concluded, now over three hours ago. “I think he plans on hitting things until he stops being quite so worried, so I’m not really expecting him to come inside anytime soon.”

“He’s still worried about Merlin?” Lancelot asks softly, sounding more than a little concerned himself, and the way the other knights lean in a little closer in order to hear Gwen’s answer is enough to suggest he’s not the only one.

“In part,” Gwen tells them, because anything else would feel untrue. To say Arthur isn’t worried about Merlin is far too obvious a lie, but to say yes in answer to Lancelot’s question would imply that there’s nothing else they ought to be worrying about, and Gwen knows both she and Arthur intend to keep the secrets in their kingdom to a minimum, at least from those dear to them. That said, this is not the place for her to tell them, not when she can be almost certain someone will overhear them, and their kingdom is in enough danger already, without the mass panic likely to result from the curse becoming public knowledge. “Merlin insists that he’s fine, of course, but since he’d say the same thing if his head was about to fall off…”

The men look at her, all of them, and almost all of them are wearing similar expressions of concern.

“Gwaine did leave him long enough to attend training this morning,” Elyan points out after a moment, clearly intending to be reassuring. “I can’t see him doing that if Merlin was actually in any danger.”

Gwen inclines her head at him, acknowledging the point. “No,” she agrees softly. “I take it Gwaine managed to get him here for lunch as well?”

“Briefly,” Gareth says, the single word conveying such sulky unhappiness that Gwen can’t help but remember how young he is, how much younger than the rest of them. “No one’s seen either of them since then.”

Gwen frowns, since whilst she wouldn’t particularly say she’s surprised by this, she can hardly say it’s something she was expecting to hear. “Gwaine as well?” she asks; although she would understand if Gwaine had spent the day determined to remain by Merlin’s side whenever possible, she _would_ be surprised if Merlin had been willing to indulge his mollycoddling for very long.

Gareth’s scowl deepens in response to her question, a clear enough answer that Gwen doesn’t really need the murmured, “Yes, Gwaine as well,” that Leon offers.

“They’re probably just busy, kid,” Montague says, jostling Gareth with his elbow, his jovial, joking tone not quite matched by his grin. It makes Gwen think better of him, a little, both because he’s worried and because he’s trying to reassure the boy. “Getting some alone time, you know.”

“My room’s almost next door to theirs,” Elyan mutters, apparently forgetting the fact that Gwen is sitting opposite him, but then Gwen supposes Gareth’s ever-deepening blush is quite distracting. “Believe me when I say they get more than enough alone time already.”

“Elyan,” Leon murmurs, not so much chiding as warning, though Elyan doesn’t seem to realise that.

“What?” he asks, at least having the sense to lower his voice to a hiss unlikely to travel beyond their table. “It’s not like I _care_ what they get up to. But if-”

“You can stop talking now, Elyan,” Gwen cuts in, because it’s her duty as an older sister to look out for him when she can, and it’s really not his fault he chose to sit facing away from the doors.

Unfortunately, either the silly fool doesn’t realise that Gwen’s smile and her eyes are both fixed on a point over his shoulder or he just doesn’t care, and Gwen decides that, sometimes, it’s best to let him learn for himself.

“If Merlin’s really all that special, surely he can figure out a way to soundproof their room,” he finishes, his tone demonstrating just how little correlation there is between volume and gusto.

“We’ll bear that in mind,” Gwaine says, grinning broadly as he claps Elyan on the shoulder with one hand and ruffles his brother’s hair with the other, while Merlin blushes almost as violent a shade of tomato as Gareth.

Both of them sit down, Merlin coming around the table to sit at Leon’s left while Gwaine sits opposite him on Gareth’s right, and there seems to be an unvoiced agreement between Gwen and the other knights to let them eat in peace. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t last all that long, and it’s only a minute or two before Montague – the only one who is both out of range of Gwaine’s _shut up_ swats and insensitive enough to interrupt their meal (though, Gwen has to concede, it does seem to be a well-meaning insensitivity) – says, “How are you, Merlin?”

Merlin might not be in her line of sight but Gwen can tell from the others’ expressions that he’s trying to smile as he answers, just as she can tell it’s not an entirely successful attempt. “Tired,” he says. “Other than that, a lot better than yesterday.”

The men sat opposite her relax, apparently deciding to take Merlin at his word, though that may only be because they can’t see the way Gwaine frowns, his shoulders hunching in a little, eyes unwavering from Merlin’s face even as he steadily moves bread and stew from his plate to his mouth.

“What happened?” Percival rumbles, his shadow falling over Gwen’s plate and then her face as he leans forward in order to look past her and Leon at Merlin.

There’s a momentary silence, the first this group has allowed since Gwen joined them, and Gwen isn’t sure if it’s because Merlin doesn’t want to answer, because he’s trying to figure out the best way to explain, or simply because his mouth is too full to speak.

“It’s complicated,” Merlin says, before Gwen can decide if she ought to intervene. “And probably not something we should discuss right now, if you catch my drift?”

Percival nods, slow and considering, and Gwen sees similar expressions of understanding on the faces of the men sat opposite her. “But you’re okay?” Gareth asks quietly and with more concern than Gwen would have expected.

“I’m okay,” Merlin answers gently.

Whilst the others don’t necessarily seem to take his words at face value – both Leon and Lancelot send a questioning look at Gwaine for confirmation, and Gwen suspects they’re probably the only ones she catches doing it rather than the only ones who do so – they do seem willing to allow the conversation to move on.

“Well, we’ve all blacked out a time or two,” Montague says lightly, launching into the kind of story that most normal people would be far too embarrassed to allow someone else to tell, let alone tell it themselves.

X

They sleep in Merlin’s old room again that night, folding themselves together in order to fit in the narrow bed. Gwaine fidgets ineffectively – there’s hardly any room for it to be anything other than ineffective – for a minute or two, his head twisting and turning against Merlin’s chest until Merlin realises what the problem is.

He brushes a kiss to Gwaine’s forehead before pulling back a little way, twisting carefully in the narrow space between Gwaine and the edge of the bed until Gwaine’s chest is pressed to his back. Gwaine’s arms close back around him automatically, strong and secure, and Merlin laces his fingers between those on the hand resting just below his ribs, guiding it upwards and in, until Gwaine’s palm is pressed against his chest, over the thudding beat of his heart.

Gwaine doesn’t acknowledge the gesture, at least not verbally, but Merlin feels him relax, curling closer against Merlin’s spine before brushing a kiss to the side of his neck.

“Night, love,” he murmurs, nestling down until his forehead rests upon Merlin’s shoulder.

“Sleep well, Gwaine,” Merlin answers, using his free hand to slide the blankets further up their bodies, curling his feet up to keep them covered. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

X

Despite it being well past nightfall before he finally brings himself inside, Arthur still spends the next hour pacing. It’s not really a whole lot more obtrusive than his snoring tends to be, but Gwen finds herself awake anyway; whilst Gwen dozes from time to time, she feels too… not uncomfortable, precisely, since she’s normally completely at ease with napping while Arthur goes about his business in the evening, but on this occasion it doesn’t really seem fair to sleep properly when her husband so clearly isn’t.

“Maybe we should offer to help,” he suggests, pausing in the middle of what has to be his fiftieth loop of the room to look over at Gwen, who is now sitting up amongst their blankets, knees bent up so that she can rest her chin on them.

It takes her a moment to catch up with what he’s thinking, but Gwen can’t help but smile when she figures it out: in the space of less than a year, Arthur has moved from believing all magic is inherently evil to suggesting they should aid Merlin in his research. “We should,” she agrees, trying not to sound overly proud of him. “Merlin will appreciate that.”

Arthur smiles momentarily, then returns to looking stern and resolute, what Gwen knows Merlin calls his _I have a stupid plan and nothing you say will keep me from following through with it_ face (“A little wordy,” she told him, the first time he said it to her; Merlin had laughed, and told her the wordiness was necessary to distinguish it from all his other stupid faces).

It’s only when he goes to get a shirt out of the wardrobe that Gwen realises Arthur intends to offer Merlin their assistance this very minute, at which point it’s hard not to sigh and concede that, much as she loves her husband, Merlin probably has a point, about his stubbornness at the very least.

“It’s the middle of the night, Arthur,” she points out, trying to sound reasonable without also sounding like she thinks he isn’t aware of that fact.

“He’ll be awake,” Arthur says, though it’s not so much dismissive as it is stating a fact, and he has paused in getting dressed in order to say it.

“Probably,” Gwen agrees, since she highly doubts Merlin is finding sleep any easier to come by than she and Arthur are. “But even if we aren’t about to wake him up, it’s still the middle of the night, and I am absolutely certain he won’t still be researching the curse at this hour. Gaius will have sent him to bed hours ago, and Gwaine will be doing everything in his power to make sure he stays there.”

Arthur looks a little uncomfortable, apparently picturing just what ends Gwaine might be going to in order to keep Merlin in bed; that certainly wasn’t what Gwen meant, not least because Gaius is trying to sleep in the room next door, but if it’s enough to keep Arthur from racing down to the physician’s rooms right now she isn’t going to say that.

“Exactly,” she says. “However much he might like help with the research, I can’t imagine Merlin will appreciate you charging down there and interrupting them.”

For a few seconds, Gwen thinks that the fear of walking in on Merlin and Gwaine in bed together won’t be enough to dissuade him from his less than stellar plan, and if she thought they were likely to be doing something scandalous she’d be perfectly willing to let him march right on in there; in Gwen’s admittedly rather limited experience, brutal embarrassment is sometimes the only way to teach a man to mind his own business. As it is, Arthur will learn nothing more than yet another way he can irritate Gwaine, and so Gwen thinks it’s best she try another way to keep Arthur in their room.

She’s readying herself to try a different argument or, failing that, attempt to play the seductress (a role she’s never been comfortable in, despite Morgana’s many attempts to encourage her in days gone by) when Arthur sighs, sitting at the foot of their bed, his back to her.

“My people are suffering, Guinevere,” he says softly, and Gwen shuffles her way down the bed to sit next to him, resting her forehead on his shoulder. “My own sister is trying to starve us all to death, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

“Arthur,” she says, tracing her fingers down his arm to his hand and lacing their fingers together. “You’re doing all you can, love”

“I’m not doing _anything_ ,” he answers, and although the words could be frustrated, could even be angry in another situation, all he sounds is horribly exhausted. “I’m-”

Gwen interrupts, because she’s seen his downward spiral of self-doubt before and would very much like to not see it again. Arthur can sometimes seem entitled (though not entirely unjustifiably, since his current title is _King_ ), can cloak himself in an arrogance so obnoxious that anyone else would have been punched for it many a time, but the man under that, the man she married, hides an uncertainty so at odds with everything he’s achieved that Gwen can barely comprehend it.

“You’re accepting that this isn’t a problem you can solve by waving a sword at it,” she says. “You can’t argue your way out of it, and you can’t bribe Morgana to stop. Even surrendering the kingdom to her wouldn’t make things any better for our people, otherwise you’d have considered it already.”

“I-”

“I am still talking, Arthur Pendragon, and you are going to stay silent until I am finished,” Gwen says, with a sternness that surprises both of them. “What you can do, what you _have been doing_ , is make sure everyone under your protection has the best possible chance at survival. You saved who knows how many lives when you rationed food for everyone this winter, and having Merlin and Gaius research ways to break Morgana’s curse will save even more.”

“They would’ve done that anyway.”

Gwen sighs, sitting up and shuffling backwards in order to look at him, because clearly holding his hand and leaning against his shoulder isn’t doing anything to cheer him up. “They would,” she says, “but this way they can do it openly, with assistance from Gwaine and you and anyone else who wants to offer it, and when they find a solution Merlin can do it without worrying about being executed for saving us all. You’ve done everything you can possibly do to protect our people, and you’ve definitely done everything you can do for today.”

Arthur looks at her, and it’s a long time since Gwen last thought of any of them as young but right now that’s how Arthur looks: young, tired, and so horribly uncertain.

“Come on,” she says quietly, brushing a kiss to his cheek before taking his hand again and standing up. She takes a step back, tightening her grip on Arthur’s hand until he stands as well, allowing her to lead him to her side of the bed. “Go to sleep, Arthur. We’ll talk to Merlin about ways we can help tomorrow, and we’ll both be a lot more useful to him if we’re not struggling to stay awake.”

She pushes gently at his shoulders until he sits down, sliding her fingers through his hair before pressing a second kiss to his forehead and lifting the blankets. “Lie down,” she says, almost silently, then gets back into bed, equal parts beside and on top of him, and tugs the blankets back over them.

Arthur’s arms come up around her as she settles down, her head on his shoulder, his face pressed against her hair, and although it’s a long time before his breath evens out enough for Gwen to be sure he’s asleep, at least he’s not pacing anymore.

X

It’s not yet dawn when Merlin wakes up, but it’s still more than late enough; his sleep has been uneasy at best, so plagued by nightmares of Morgana’s laughter and drowning in the foul darkness of the curse on Camelot they way he almost did the day before yesterday that waking up is definitely a relief.

He allows himself a few minutes to enjoy the silence of the hour and the comfort of Gwaine’s arms around him before casting a light so dim his eyes barely need a moment to react to it. Gwaine doesn’t stir, though, so he risks brightening it a little before moving, sliding from the warmth of his bed and letting out a sharp hiss when his bare feet come into contact with the stone floor. It’s cold, colder than the air around him, and Merlin crosses the room in as few strides as possible, hopping from foot to foot as he unpicks the laces on his boots enough to be able to wedge his feet into them, then swaps the shirt he slept in for a clean one and pulls on his jacket, the whole time thinking fondly of the sheepskin Gwaine bought for Merlin’s side of their bed.

By some miracle, Gwaine sleeps through all of this, and despite it being what Merlin was hoping for, he’s still a little bit surprised by it; silence isn’t something he’s particularly good at, however hard he tries, and this is the second day in a row he’s managed to get up without waking Gwaine. Still, it’s good that one of them is able to get some sleep, and Merlin allows himself only one envious glance back at the bed before opening the door and willing the ball of light to lead him from the room.

The workroom is just as cold and dark as Merlin’s bedroom is, and he spends a moment or two haphazardly stacking logs in the fireplace before forcing them alight and hanging the kettle above the flames.

The room isn’t warming up anywhere near as quickly as Merlin would like it to, so he drags a stool and the book he started last night as close to the fire as he can get without catching light and begins to read.

It’s as dull as all the other books he’s paged through lately, and most likely as unhelpful, but Merlin perseveres with it, forcing himself through page after page of irrelevance in the hope that he’ll turn up something of use before Arthur asks him for an update on his progress.

X

It doesn’t take as much effort to get Merlin to leave his books aside and come with him to breakfast today, and Gwaine isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad one. On the one hand, not having to argue with Merlin about the need for basic necessities like food and sleep is a good thing, but at the same time, Gwaine’s pretty sure it means the research is going really badly.

Then they get to the mess hall, and Gwaine sees not only Gwen but also Arthur sitting at their usual table, at which point Merlin’s willingness to go for breakfast makes a little more sense.

Oh, he’s certain enough that Merlin isn’t still in love with Arthur, knows that Merlin has chosen a reality with him over daydreams of his king, but Arthur is still important, _precious_ to him, and the two of them have barely spent any time together over the last couple of days.

“You knew he’d be here, then?” he asks as they queue up for food.

“Suspected it, yeah,” Merlin answers. “If it was up to him, he’d probably have shown up at Gaius’s door in the middle of the night. It’s probably only because of Gwen’s influence that we both got a full night’s sleep.”

“I’ll make sure to thank her for that,” Gwaine mutters, holding out a bowl so that the woman serving can splodge a spoonful of the world’s gloopiest porridge into it.

Merlin gives him a _you’re really not funny_ look (which Gwaine disputes, since pretty much everyone knows he’s hilarious, but he supposes Merlin is entitled to his own opinion), elbows him gently in the side, and makes his way over to the table.

Arthur’s giving them this hopeful look as they approach, like he thinks one day is long enough for Merlin to have fixed a problem that’s been troubling them for months. Gwaine doesn’t know if it’s good that he thinks Merlin can actually do that or if it’s just infuriating, but he can’t help but feel a little bit worried when he sees how fast Arthur’s face drops after Merlin shakes his head very slightly.

“Nothing?” he asks quietly when they get within hearing range, something so desperate to it that Gwaine worries he’ll have to prevent Merlin from running back to his books right this second.

“Not yet,” Merlin answers, thankfully sitting down and making a start on his breakfast. “We’ll figure it out, though.”

There’s a moment of silence while Arthur tries to force something approaching optimism onto his face. It doesn’t work so well (though he probably deserves credit for making the effort), and there’s a moment of silence that leaves the very air around them feeling uncomfortably heavy.

“Is everything okay?” Lancelot asks as things become almost unbearable, which Gwaine figures is a far more polite equivalent to the _Are you going to tell us what’s going on or not?_ he’d be asking if he didn’t already know.

“It’s fine,” Arthur says, just a little too abrupt. “Everything’s fine.”

The silence this time isn’t so much awkward as it is incredibly disbelieving, swiftly broken by Gwen, who places a hand on her husband’s arm and murmurs, “Arthur.”

Arthur looks at them all in turn like he’s weighing them up, as if most of them haven’t already faced down Morgana at his side. They proved their trustworthiness when they earned their knighthoods, and Montague proved his when he got stabbed protecting Merlin, so the only one at their table who has yet to actively do something to show he can be counted on is Gareth, and Gwaine speaking for him ought to be good enough.

Whatever it is that he’s looking for, Arthur seems to find it, because he goes from staring them down to staring down everyone around them. Eventually he nods, rests his hand over Gwen’s and gives her a small smile that seems unnecessarily devoted, then speaks.

“Merlin,” he says, very quietly, glancing once more at the bustling room around them before fixing his eyes on his plate rather than the man he’s speaking to. “Can you do something to keep this conversation between us?”

Merlin stares at him, his eyes so big that Gwaine spends a moment wondering if he’s actually okay. Then, with remarkable deliberateness, he picks up his spoon, scoops up a lump of porridge, transports it carefully to his mouth, and promptly drops the spoon on the floor.

“Oh, shoot!” he says, ducking his head under the table and staying there an improbably long time.

“With acting skills like that, I can totally see how he managed to keep this a secret for more than three years,” Elyan says, the amusement in his voice somehow not doing anything to negate the fondness with which he looks at the space Merlin previously occupied.

“ _You_ believed it.” Merlin’s voice emerges from under the table, followed shortly by Merlin himself, brandishing his spoon and looking unnecessarily victorious. “We’re good, Arthur,” he says. “As far as everyone more than about” – he pauses, holding his hands about shoulder distance apart, then moves them a little closer together – “that far from the table is concerned, this is a completely normal conversation we’re having. You’re giving instructions, I’m refusing them on the grounds that they’re undoubtedly stupid, and Gwen and Leon are taking it in turns to try bring a little reason to things. Completely normal.”

Arthur gives him a look that is both fairly unamused and a little bit unsure, like he can somehow believe Merlin has the power to save them all from starvation but not think him capable of keeping this conversation from being overheard. “You’re sure?”

Rather than offering a simple _yes_ in response, Merlin grins broadly, staying silent for long enough that Arthur starts to look uncomfortable before loudly announcing, “I’m a sorcerer, Arthur’s known that for months, and while I’m telling secrets I might as well let you all know that he’s got a really small-”

“ _Merlin!_ ” Arthur cuts in, his face crimson, though Gwaine isn’t sure if it’s anger or embarrassment (either way, he’s struggling not to laugh, and he’s pretty sure he’s not the only one).

“I was going to say _ego_ ,” Merlin says, eyes wide and hands held up in an _I’m innocent, honest_ gesture that makes it entirely clear he wasn’t going to say anything close to that innocuous. Arthur’s continued glare makes it equally clear he’s not buying it, but Merlin just smiles and points out the obvious fact their king was too distracted to notice. “Anyway, the fact that no one’s staring suggests my spell worked, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t have a small _anything_ ,” Arthur says, like that’s really the matter they’re here to discuss; Gwaine would happily point this out, or possibly just ask what Arthur’s basing that assertion on (unless there’s some castle gossip he’s been missing out on, he’s not quite sure what grounds for comparison Arthur’s got), but Merlin stomps hard on his foot the moment he opens his mouth.

“Of course not, love,” Gwen says soothingly, patting Arthur’s hand. “That said, I’m really not sure this is what we’re here to discuss.”

“And there you go trying to bring reason back into play.” Merlin grins, his expression momentarily full of lightness, then sobers drastically. “Everything isn’t okay,” he says, wincing at the bluntness of his own words, but apparently deciding just to carry on anyway. “The crops aren’t dying naturally. Someone – most likely Morgana, given the power required and… there’s a _feeling_ , I guess that’s the best word for it, that I recognise from when she was first discovering what she can do – has put a curse on Camelot. That’s what knocked me out on the day of the hunt.”

There’s a clamour of voices, so many of them speaking at once that Gwaine doesn’t bother trying to decipher them, and it seems Merlin decides the same: he waits, not quite patiently but not entirely impatiently either, until the knights fall silent again.

“Gaius and I are working on a solution,” he says, though none of the words Gwaine caught suggest anyone thinks this wasn’t going to happen. “We’ve not got anything yet, but we’ll find an answer sooner or later, and until then I don’t think there’s any danger to anyone. Besides starvation, at any rate, and Arthur’s done all he can to keep that from happening.”

His explanation over, Merlin returns his attention to his plate; Gwaine spares a moment to glare at anyone who looks likely to ask Merlin a question before he’s finished eating, then picks up his own spoon.

“Okay,” Arthur says, while Merlin more or less inhales his porridge. “That’s what we know. Obviously, we’re trying to keep this between ourselves for as long as possible, so there is to be no discussion of this outside of ourselves and Gaius. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Leon answers, frowning, though probably not for any reason than the obvious one. “Is there any way we can be of assistance?”

Merlin seems to be more occupied by his breakfast than the quality of the meal merits, because it takes until Gwaine knocks his knee against Merlin’s for him to realise Arthur is deferring the question to him.

“Oh,” he says, distracted. “No, we’ll find something sooner or later. Speaking of which,” he adds, pausing for just a moment to scrape up the last of his porridge, “I should be getting back to it.”

Without any further discussion, Merlin stands up. He taps his right index finger three times on the table, eyes flashing, and murmurs, “I’ll see you later,” before dodging his way around the tables and out the door.

As if Merlin’s abrupt departure is his cue, Arthur stands up, resting a hand on Gwen’s shoulder. “You’ll see that Gaius and Merlin have all they need, Guinevere?” he asks, his expression fond, focused on his wife with an intensity that even Gwaine thinks might border on being too intimate for a public place.

“Of course,” Gwen says, smiling up at him. “Do remember that we have petitions this afternoon, won’t you, love? Even if you don’t feel like making time for lunch.”

Arthur offers her a smile that borders on sheepish, then leans over, offering her the kind of personal farewell Gwaine thinks Merlin should have given him. It’s not a long kiss, or a remotely indecent one, but it’s so very affectionate that Gwaine’s mind is made up. Merlin is busy, and quite reasonably so, and if Gwaine isn’t going to interrupt his hard work just because of his (petty, very much so, and immature as well, but since it’s how he feels and there’s no way to change that, there’s really no reason to angst about it) need for attention, he’s going to do everything he can to make sure Merlin solves their problem as soon as possible.

“I want you all out at the training field in ten minutes,” Arthur says, after a moment of gazing gooily at his wife, this time addressing not just their table but the room as a whole. “Let’s go, men.”

X

“Oof,” Gwaine announces as he stands up, both the volume and the tone clearly designed to draw attention. Gwen spends a moment considering whether she wants to give him it; entertaining though Gwaine can be, she isn’t entirely sure she slept well enough last night to deal with his dramatics.

“Ow,” Gwaine says, taking a step away from the table. It’s loud enough this time that Gwen isn’t the only one to glance at him, and when a further step is accompanied by a hiss of pain, Gwen realises he’s not going to give up until someone indulges him.

“Are you okay, Sir Gwaine?” she asks, certain enough that he’s playing up his pain for his own reasons that she doesn’t stand just yet.

Gwaine looks over at her, clearly feigning surprise that someone has noticed his supposed agony. “Fine, Majesty,” he answers, grinning, then takes another, staggering step before stopping, weight on his right leg, arms out like he’s trying to keep his balance. “Knee’s playing up again. Sure it’ll be fine, though.”

Gwen nods, smiling blandly, now completely certain that he’s faking everything. “Jolly good, then,” she says, fairly sure she’s never uttered that phrase sincerely in her lifetime. “If that’s the case, I’d suggest you ought to get down to the training field before Arthur sends someone to retrieve you.”

“Yeah…” he answers, face falling, then turns and limps exaggeratedly towards the door. It’s slow going, and just the secondhand embarrassment Gwen feels at watching him is almost more than she can put up with, but it’s not until Gwaine lurches sideways and topples into the table closest to the door that she has to accept her role in this ridiculous charade.

Successfully beating back a sigh (though, it has to be said, not quite defeating the urge to roll her eyes), Guinevere stands, smoothing down her skirts and making her way after him.

“Sir Gwaine,” she calls, keeping her voice light. “Perhaps if it’s inconveniencing you this much, you ought to speak to Gaius?”

“Arthur’s expecting me at training,” Gwaine answers, the stubborn set to his jaw probably enough to convince a lesser person.

“Sir Bedevere will let him know where you are,” she promises, rolling her eyes again and gesturing to the man closest to them; Bedevere looks at her, eyes wide, non-verbally begging her to delegate the task to someone else, but Gwen just smiles, bland and oblivious (she’s had enough time since the coronation to perfect it, after all), and allows Gwaine to drape an arm over her shoulder and continue his fake limp towards the door. “Come on, let’s get your knee seen to.”

X

The book hasn’t become any more interesting in the short while he’s been away from it and, whilst this is exactly what he expected, Merlin can’t say he isn’t a little disappointed. There have been plenty of times (admittedly not ones where lives have been at risk) where he’s found research absorbing, days where he’s intended to open one book or another for two minutes just to verify something only to lose an hour or more to his curiosity and learning purely for the sake of it.

Those days seem an awfully long time ago, and Merlin is bored, struggling to pay attention, even if he knows the situation means he should be devouring every word as fast as he can.

He’s been wading through the book for about twenty minutes (or so he thinks, but since it feels so much longer he really can’t be sure) before the door opens. He looks up, feeling slightly guilty gratitude for the interruption despite his concern about the number of books he’s going to have to explain his possession of, only to be surprisingly unsurprised when he sees who it is.

“I believe that belongs to you, Merlin,” Gaius says tiredly as Gwaine limps into the room, one arm thrown around Gwen’s shoulders for support.

“For my sins, yes,” Merlin answers, his low-level guilt this time caused not by his gratitude for the excuse to stop reading but by his mild irritation at the cause of it. “Who was it this time, and how did you manage to irritate them this much between breakfast and now?”

“It seems the knee he injured last year is bothering him again,” Gwen explains as she deposits Gwaine on the bench closest to the door, sounding disturbingly amused at the idea.

Merlin stands up, choosing to put aside Gwen’s sudden, inexplicable callousness and focus on the issue at hand. “I thought I fixed that,” he says, even as he pushes his sleeves up and reaches for a roll of bandages; if his magic has failed to repair the damage once, trying a second time is probably not a good idea. He doesn’t know why it didn’t take, or even really what it was that he did, which means he’s got no idea how a second application of magic might interact with the first.

Gwaine looks up at him, shoulders slumped and eyes pity-me pathetic. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says, reaching out and taking the bandages from Merlin’s hands. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

The words, sincere though they may sound, are far enough from what he might have expected that Merlin falters; beloved though Gwaine is to him, even Merlin can’t deny he has both a fondness and a flair for the dramatic. “How could I not?” Merlin murmurs, crouching so that he’s on eye-level with Gwaine, their hands linked, not having moved enough to roll Gwaine’s trouser leg up and get a look at his knee.

“You’ve got more important things to worry about,” Gwaine mutters, casting an eye over the books heaped on the table. “I’ll just sit out of the way with a book, and I’m sure it’ll be fine in a day or two. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Embarrassingly enough, it’s only at this point that Merlin starts to realise there’s something a little bit suspicious about this. “It won’t hurt to have a quick look,” he says firmly, pulling his hands free. “Remind me which knee it is?”

There’s a soft noise – bearing more than a passing resemblance to a muffled giggle – from behind him, confirming both that Merlin is right and that he’s not the only one to realise it.

“Erm,” Gwaine answers, his hands sort of hanging there for a moment before he leans forwards and begins pulling up the left leg of his trousers. “This one.”

If he’d still had any doubts about how he feels, Merlin’s pretty sure this moment, as he kneels before Gwaine and makes a show of examining an injury he knows full well doesn’t exist, would be more than enough to clear them up; how else to explain the fact that Merlin’s going along with this madness, other than that he’s stupidly, impossibly, arse-over-tit in love with the silly git?

“I think you’ll live,” he says softly, after a moment or two of pretending. “Still, perhaps you ought to give training a miss for a day or two, just in case.”

Gwaine grins at him, ridiculous as ever. “If you think that’s best,” he answers, as though that wasn’t exactly what he’d been hoping Merlin would say.

_Daft fool_ , Merlin thinks as he leans in to press a quick kiss to Gwaine’s cheek, only half certain that the words are meant for Gwaine rather than himself. “Fool,” he murmurs to one or both of them, then very quietly points out something he hopes no one other than Gwen or himself will remember. “It was your right knee you injured last time.”

Gwaine’s self-congratulatory expression falters briefly, only to be replaced by one of sheer, pigheaded determination. “Give us a book, yeah? Might as well make myself useful, if I’m not going to be training for a bit.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, darting in to kiss Gwaine again, no less brief but on the lips this time. _Fool_ , he thinks again, this time definitely at himself, but all he says, very quietly, is, “I do love you, Gwaine.”

He steps back before Gwaine can either reply or drag him into a proper kiss; the former Merlin knows already without needing to hear it, and the latter he’d really rather not have his former guardian or his queen/best (female) friend witness.

“Here,” he says at a normal volume, taking the book he was reading earlier from the table and handing it to Gwaine. “Sorry, it’s dull as dishwater and I’m almost certain there’s nothing useful in it, but someone should probably read it all anyway.”

“Lucky me,” Gwaine answers, his smile wavering a little but not by any means subsiding entirely. Without another word he turns his attention to the book, staring down at the same pages that Merlin was bored to tears by like they’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

For a moment, Merlin just looks at him, his chest feeling tight, impossibly full, in a smaller but no less real way than it does when Arthur does something stupidly, selflessly noble. A silly git Gwaine may be, but he’s Merlin’s silly git, and a small act of honest self-sacrifice (Merlin’s seen Gwaine’s face after training, knows that however much he bitches about mud wrestling and the bitter wind blowing straight through the links in his armour, he adores both the outdoors and the adrenaline) is no less real than a large one. It’s almost more so, at least to Merlin, when he’s giving up his time for Merlin alone rather than for the kingdom as a whole.

Merlin reaches out, intending to ruffle Gwaine’s hair but mostly just stroking it, a brief indulgence that has Gwaine’s gaze flicking back up at him, that same smile still playing across his lips and around his eyes.

He looks down again after a moment or two, a gesture Merlin takes as slightly pointed even if Gwaine almost certainly didn’t mean it that way; Merlin takes a step back, then a second, before turning around and retaking his seat at the worktable.

A cursory glance around reveals two or three books that look as though they might be promising, in amongst a great many others that fall into the _just in case_ category, so Merlin grabs the least dull looking tome from the _potential_ pile – a slender book bound in deep green leather, gold knotwork embossed on the spine and surrounding the two word title (‘Growing Things’) – and readies himself for further tedium.

“I’ll just help myself, then,” Gwen says, her silk-sleeved arm reaching into the piles and grabbing a book at random (or so Merlin assumes, since the one she’s gone for is enormous, the kind of book a person of lesser character would put down before they even finished picking it up).

“Don’t go for that one,” Merlin says, before he can think about the fact that a) he’s talking to the queen and b) the queen just happens to be Gwen. Neither of the two would be a person he should be giving instructions to, particularly not ones phrased as sharply as that, and Merlin does his best to look as contrite as he feels. “Sorry, Gwen. I just meant, it’s probably not the best place to start, particularly since I figure you’ve probably got somewhere else to be before too long.”

Fortunately, Gwen doesn’t seem to have taken his sharpness to heart; she smiles, as benevolent as ever, and continues to pull free the book she’s got her hands on. “I assure you, I’m quite capable of reading a book, Merlin,” she says sweetly, letting out a muted giggle as her eyes flick across to where Gwaine is sat. “Even if is a little larger than what you’re used to.”

“ _Gwen_ ,” Merlin hisses, not sure if he’s scandalised, offended or amused. Regardless, there’s one fact that he’s quite certain of, and it’s that he has no wish to discuss anything she’s suggesting in present company. “Gaius is in here.”

“Merlin, I’ve been practicing voluntary deafness ever since your mother sent you here,” Gaius says, still looking down at his own book and sounding infinitely uninterested. “If Her Majesty really wishes to discuss this with you right now, please don’t allow my presence to be the thing that prevents it.”

“You could try thinking of my ego, though,” Gwaine mutters, turning a page, then glances up with a smirk that has Merlin starting a spell before Gwaine can open his mouth again. “Unless I’m-”

His mouth continues moving but nothing comes out, the words snatched away before he can say something that’ll have Merlin blushing so hard his head explodes. “We’re not talking about anything,” he says firmly, then proceeds to try and explain himself while there’s no chance at all of Gwaine interrupting. “Gwen, I have absolutely no doubt about what you can handle. I meant only that it’s a huge book, that you have a great number of responsibilities to deal with, and that it might be easier to read a smaller book in one sitting rather than reading the huge book in between doing other things, but if you want to read that monster, please, please do so, because it means I won’t have to.”

“I’ve got nowhere to be until petitions this afternoon,” Gwen says, sitting on the bench opposite Merlin, smoothing her skirts down so as to take up as little space as possible before reaching for the book again. “I’ll read what I can before then, and pick it up again after.”

Merlin nods, accepting her at her word; Gwen’s made her choice and since she clearly plans on sticking to it, he’s not going to waste any more time trying to convince her not to, not when they’ve got impending starvation hanging over their heads.

He’s just readying himself to open the book he’s chosen when there’s a loud thud from Gwaine’s general direction. All three of them turn to look at him (so much for Gaius’ voluntary deafness), and Merlin wastes a few moments trying to figure out his clearly angry gestures before remembering the spell.

“Behave,” he says, in his best impression of Arthur’s _I expect better of you_ voice, the one that has the power to stop misdemeanours before they even get started. “Or I’ll tell Arthur you’re faking an injury to get out of training.”

_So tell him_ , Gwaine says, with nothing more than a tilt of his head and the sort of grin that often precedes trouble.

“Or I could just leave you in silence for the rest of the day,” Merlin continues, with a trouble causing grin of his own. “Maybe it’ll even stop you snoring.”

Gwaine’s expression turns hangdog, the saddest, most pitiable sight Merlin’s seen this side of a puppy, and he should know better than to fall for it, _does_ know better, and yet he lets himself fall for it anyway. “Fine,” he says, following it up with a few syllables murmured beneath his breath, the quiet more from habit than necessity. “But I will turn you in if you end up being a nuisance. You can be someone else’s problem for a change.”

Gwaine makes a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Love you too, Merlin,” he says, the flippant lightness of his words and tone not quite masking the absolute sincerity in his smile.

Merlin offers one of his own in return, holding Gwaine’s gaze for a long moment before turning back to his book again.

X

Montague is the next to join them, arriving in Gaius’s workroom shortly after lunch the following day, one hand pressed to his side as he mutters his explanation for being there under his breath. Gwen pays attention long enough to catch something about how he _must have twisted the wrong way_ as he blocked a blow during training, because his old stab wound _hurt like a motherfu-umbler_ (Gwen isn’t sure if the aborted profanity is for her sake or Gaius’s, and if it’s the former can’t decide if she finds it acceptably respectful or offensively patronising), then decides that her life will be considerably easier if she doesn’t have to lie to her husband when he asks her if she thinks his knights are feigning their injuries.

Instead, she skims through another few pages and tries to ignore the way Merlin huffs disbelievingly and performs a cursory check –

“Gods, Merlin, your hands are _freezing_. How the hell do you stand it, Gwaine?”

“Who says I- right, sorry, shutting up and reading again.”

– that ends with, “You’ll live, I reckon. Take tomorrow off, but since you’re already here, you might as well make yourself useful. Gwen, could you let Arthur know, please?”

“Absolutely not,” Gwen says crisply, refusing to look up at them (her chances of believably claiming ignorance are already pretty slim, but the self-satisfied expressions at least one of them is likely to be wearing would reduce her odds to only slightly above zero). “If Sir Montague is still in pain at breakfast tomorrow, I’m sure he can explain for himself why he won’t be at training.”

There’s an indrawn whistle of breath from one of them, a slightly shaky laugh from a second, then Gwaine says, “Gods above, Guinevere. Marrying Arthur has made you _mean_.”

“And excessive drinking has made you stupid, Sir Gwaine,” Gwen answers, her tone as sweet as she can make it, only to sharpen a breath later. “As fun as this is, might I suggest we leave discussion of each other’s character flaws for a more convenient time?”

“ _Mean_ ,” Gwaine mutters, but when Gwen glances up at him across the table, he’s already grinning back at her.

X

Montague announcing that he won’t be joining Arthur and the knights for training seems to break a dam that Gwaine’s absence didn’t, because it’s barely half an hour after breakfast when Gareth taps softly on the door before letting himself in.

“Can I help?” he asks, timidly enough that Gwaine wants to tell him to grow a pair.

He doesn’t, though, instead opting to go with a somewhat hypocritical, “Shouldn’t you be outside?”

“Only voluntarily,” Gareth answers, timidity diminishing the second he turns from Merlin and Guinevere to Gwaine. “I’m not one of you, am I, so the only reason to go to training is if I want to, and I don’t. I want to help.”

He turns back to Merlin for the last four words, dropping Gwen a respectful nod on the way, his jaw set in a way Gwaine is pretty sure means trouble (he’s seen a similar set in his own reflection often enough to know, after all).

Merlin looks back at Gareth, not smiling openly the way he would be if it was Gwaine looking at him like that, but there’s a half-hidden hint of amusement in his eyes that suggests he’s thinking exactly the same thing as Gwaine is.

“Okay,” he says, and just as he’s not laughing at Gareth, he’s also not arguing about it the way he would with Gwaine; either Merlin thinks things are a hell of a lot worse than he’s letting on or it’s not a fight he thinks is worth having, and Gwaine has an awful feeling it’s not the latter. “Pick a book, Gareth.”

Gareth wavers for a moment, apparently as disconcerted by the lack of argument as Gwaine is, then sits down quickly, clearly deciding not to question his good fortune.

X

If she’d stopped to think about it, Gwen suspects she probably would have been able to anticipate this happening, and if she had, there’s every chance she could have stepped in before things got this far.

On the other hand, everything Merlin’s told her about the sheer unreliability of prophecy makes it quite clear how much easier it is to clearly see the past than it is the future, not to mention how difficult it is to fully anticipate the level of stupidity her brother is sometimes capable of.

Gwaine and Montague both have an excuse to miss training, unlikely and almost certainly fabricated though it may be, and Gareth had a valid point when he said he was only there by choice, but the others…

Lancelot turns up the following day, cradling his right arm to his chest like it’s about to fall off, but when Merlin tugs his other hand away it’s nothing more than grazed. Since everyone who has ever met him knows Lancelot can’t lie for love nor money, there’s no doubt in Gwen’s mind that his injury was an accident, but there’s also no denying the fact that it’s far too minor an injury for him to have bothered to seek medical attention under normal circumstances. Percival, who accompanies him in from the field, has inexplicably ended up with a shallow scratch across his face that seems somewhat less accidental, seeing as his face is so rarely within reach of the average person.

Elyan, absolute imbecile that he is, decides that, rather than staying outside under the watchful eyes of Arthur and Leon, he’s going to beg, bribe or badger someone (Gwen’s yet to discover who) into punching him in the face.

Now, Gwen loves her little brother, has done since the first time she saw him. He was so small then, and so _loud_ , always screaming to be fed or to be changed or, knowing Elyan, just desperate for attention. Their father had collected her from the neighbour’s house, warning her to be extra quiet when they got home so as not to wake her mother and her new baby brother, not that four-year-old Gwen had cared. She never wanted a brother, was quite sure she was going to hate the horrible little thing, right up until the moment Tom sat her on a chair, carefully arranged her arms and didn’t tell her off for pulling faces at Elyan while she held him.

“He’s very small,” Gwen had said, too young to know how right she was, how early Elyan was born, how weak his birth had left their mother.

“He is,” Tom answered carefully. “He’s very small, he’s very special, and your mother and I are going to need you to be very grown up for a little while. We’re going to need you to help us look after him. Can you do that, Gwennie?”

Gwen can still remember the expression on his face, can see clearly as an adult the concern, bordering on panic, that she had only subconsciously registered as a child. It was a sign of things to come – their father’s worry, their mother’s exhaustion – but all Gwen knew at the time was that her parents needed her, trusted her to do her best, and so she’d looked at him, chin out, shoulders back, and solemnly promised to do her best.

Only, Elyan has never made it at all easy to look after him.

“Gods, Elyan,” Gwen says, after a moment of staring at her baby brother, blood gushing from his nose as he stands in the doorway to Gaius’s workroom. She’s across the room before Elyan can take two steps inside, snatching a clean cloth from Merlin’s hand on her way and pressing it to her brother’s face. “Are you okay?”

“I’b fibe,” Elyan answers, taking the cloth from her with one hand and gently pushing her away with the other. “Ged obb, Gweb,” he says, pushing harder when Gwen doesn’t immediately back away.

“You’re not fine, Elyan!” Gwen snaps, still not budging. “You’re covered in blood, you stupid boy! What happened to you?”

“Budding,” Elyan says, continuing his efforts to squirm away from her even as Gwen corrals him into a space the others have cleared for him on one of the benches. She pushes down on his shoulders until he sits down, then promptly kneels before him, pinching his nose and manhandling him into tilting his head forwards “ _Ow_ , Gweb.”

“Gwen,” Merlin says, voice remarkably gentle, his hand resting on her shoulder. “Maybe you could let me have a look?”

“I’m perfectly capable, Merlin,” Gwen snaps, batting his hand away crossly; she believed him the last time, when he said he hadn’t meant to cast aspersions on her ability to do something, but this makes twice, and she is decidedly not pleased with him. “I can take care of him.”

Rather than stepping back, showing her the respect Gwen _knows_ she’s earned from him, Merlin tugs at her shoulder again. “I know you can, Gwen,” he says, very, very quietly, his mouth more or less touching her ear, which is really a great deal closer than he ought to be. “You’re more capable than the rest of us put together, but right now there’s something only you can take care of.”

He steps back, straightening up, and when Gwen glances up at him he’s very pointedly looking at something behind her.

“Arthur,” Merlin says brightly, ignoring the absolute fury with which Arthur is regarding the room. “What can we do for you?”

Gwen stands swiftly, passing the now somewhat bloodsoaked cloth to Merlin and stepping between her husband and their knights. “Arthur,” she says, one hand on Arthur’s sleeve, the links of his chainmail cold against her fingertips. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” Arthur answers, colder than Gwen is used to him being, though his fierce glare is directed over her shoulder. “We’re being slowly starved to death, Merlin and Gaius are failing miserably to find a way to save us, most of my best men are skulking in here crying over minor or nonexistent injuries, and now some _idiot_ has decided the best solution is getting himself a broken nose, so no, Guinevere, everything is _not_ okay.”

“I beg your pardon,” Gwen says, stepping back from Arthur and trying not to look amazed at the sheer amount of ice she’s managed to put into her voice. “First, Merlin and Gaius are doing everything they can to fix the food situation. Second, most of _our_ best men are in here trying to help them. Third, I highly doubt Elyan _decided_ to get a broken nose. And, finally,” she pauses, lowering the finger she hadn’t even realised she was pointing at him. “Finally, Arthur Pendragon, you will remember that _I am your wife._ The next time you speak to me like that, you will find yourself sleeping on the floor. Is that clear?”

There’s a noise from behind her, an indrawn breath, the very start of a word that breaks off sharply after a dull thud. Gwen doesn’t know who was going to speak (though she has her suspicions), or who knocked him into silence, and she’s not entirely sure she cares; this conversation is between she and Arthur, and anyone trying to interrupt, regardless of who it is, will find himself facing one of a very few things in Camelot worse than Arthur’s temper.

“Gwen,” Arthur says, softer now, holding her gaze, attention undivided. His eyes are very blue, there’s a little crease between his eyebrows, and behind the anger he never intended to direct her way there is something a hell of a lot worse. “She’s going to attack us.”

Gwen falters for a moment, struggling to follow the leap between his anger, his fear, and the words he’s just uttered, quiet enough that it’s possible no one else heard them. It comes to her all of a sudden, understanding hitting her with all the urgency of a warning bell sounding in the middle of the night, a terrible comprehension that Arthur has clearly had weighing on him since the day Merlin discovered the curse: while they may have some time before the kingdom truly begins to starve, Morgana has never been one for waiting.

Cursing Camelot was only Morgana’s first move, a subtle move meant to weaken their fighters and batter morale, but she could never be content to let something as mundane as hunger be their downfall. Even before, when all her plots and conniving were nothing more sinister than a way to irritate Arthur or take some minor revenge on a courtier who slighted her, Morgana wanted her victims to know whose hand it was that felled them, whose sharp, ruthless mind was behind their humiliation.

She’ll wait only until the kingdom is vulnerable, ripe for the picking, then come at them with an army the likes of which Gwen is terrified to imagine, and not even breaking the curse is likely to keep her from attacking.

“You should have told me, love,” Gwen says softly, any thought of quarrelling forgotten as she takes his hand in hers. “This weight is not yours alone to carry.”

Arthur’s shoulders drop just slightly, and there’s a twitch of his lips that might, under better circumstances, be considered a smile. Gwen takes it to mean that he’s sorry for keeping it from her, that this is her apology, and she likes to think she accepts it graciously.

“Okay,” she says, no longer gentle, but also not angry as she turns to face the knights, merely resolute, implacable, and accepting absolutely no arguments. “Starting tomorrow, there will be no more than two of absent from training at a time, nor will any of you miss more than one day in a row. We will have no more excuses, accidents or injuries, and anyone not absolutely committed to training will find himself donating his afternoons to further exercises.”

She pauses a moment, glancing up at Arthur just in case there is anything else he wants to add; he nods minutely, as unflinching as she is, and Gwen looks back at the others again, meeting each pair of eyes in turn before asking, “Does everyone understand that?”

“But I-” Gwaine starts, even as the others look down and away, their expressions all varying degrees of ashamed and apologetic.

“I don’t care,” Gwen tells him, even though it’s not true. Gwaine’s situation is so very similar to her own, both of them able to do little more than watch as the men they love struggle with a problem that might not even have a solution, certainly doesn’t have a nice one, and Guinevere can’t not sympathise with him. That was why she allowed him to miss training in the first place, because she wanted to help in whatever small way she can, and now she has to take it back.

Of course she cares, but they are at war.

“No one will prevent any of you from helping in your own time,” she continues, and it’s the closest thing to a concession she can offer any of them. “But right now, we need all of you fighting as well as you possibly can, just as much as we need this spell broken. That includes you, _Sir_ Gwaine.”

Gwaine looks up at her with the same pathetic, pitiful expression Gwen’s seen him use on Merlin more than once recently. He can’t possibly think that she’s going to fall for it, not when it’s only being completely and utterly in love with the berk that has Merlin giving in to that face, but Gwen supposes she would probably think less of him if he hadn’t made the effort.

“Go back to your book, Gwaine,” she says, feeling surprisingly fond of him, and maybe, she thinks, that’s the power of that look; nine times out of ten it’s not enough to make someone let Gwaine have his own way, but it is enough that people feel terrible for refusing him. “You can take tomorrow to help out,” she allows, deciding that making a small concession probably won’t hurt too much. “ _Just_ tomorrow. The rest of you can decide amongst yourselves who is going to be where and when.”

She turns from the table before anyone can argue with her (though since Gwaine looks almost mollified by the permission to take the day off, the chances of there being an argument are gratifyingly slim), crossing the short distance back to Gaius and Elyan.

“Well?” she asks, quietly enough that the others will hopefully realise this conversation isn’t for them to be a part of. “How does it look, Gaius?”

“Not broken, I don’t think,” Gaius answers, sounding a little vague for a moment, then blinking his way out of his medical trance, lowering the cloth from Elyan’s nose and looking at her. “It’ll bruise fairly badly, and it’ll probably be tender for a while, but no permanent harm has been done. One has to wonder how it happened, though.”

“I dread to think,” Gwen murmurs, clasping her baby brother’s shoulder for a moment; despite _what happened_ being close to the first thing Gwen said to him, she’s actually fairly sure her anxiety levels will be a great deal more manageable without this knowledge. “Clean yourself up, Elyan,” she instructs, then worries that she sounds rather harsher than she intended to. “I suppose there’s no point in heading back outside now, so you might as well stay here. Arthur, will you join us?”

“I think you probably have things in hand here, Gwen,” Arthur answers, not exactly smiling but still managing to convey a sense of being impressed without coming across as entirely patronising. “Besides,” he adds after a moment, and now he really is smiling, “Leon looked a little unwilling to be left in charge outside, though I’ve no idea why. The most unruly lot aren’t even out there.”

“Wonder where they’re hiding, then,” Gwaine mutters, not quite quietly enough to go unheard.

“I could hazard a guess,” Merlin answers. He returns Gwaine’s mock frown with a grin so besotted that Gwen can’t keep a smile from her face.

“Oh, don’t laugh, Guinevere,” Arthur says. “You’ll only encourage them, and they’re bad enough already.”

Gwen rises up onto her tiptoes and presses a kiss to Arthur’s cheek, smiling even more when he throws his hands up in mock despair before turning his back on them all and slips through the door; Gwen isn’t completely sure, but she thinks the set of his shoulders means he’s trying to conceal a smile of his own.

X

Over the last couple of weeks, the lot have them have read what feels like all the books in Camelot, and while Merlin has looked at every single _I might’ve found something_ the others have presented him with, none of them have resulted in anything useful.

He’s caught Gaius casting glances in his direction more and more often, and although he hasn’t said anything yet, he doesn’t really have to. Merlin knows what he’s thinking, largely because he’s thinking the same thing himself, and has been just as reluctant to suggest it.

There’s only so long he can be selfish for, though, and so it is with great reluctance Merlin finds himself searching for an opportunity to talk to Gaius without interruption. It’s made harder by the fact that at any given hour of the day somewhere between one and six knights tend to be in the physician’s quarters (not to mention Gwen, Arthur, Gareth and the occasional appearance of someone actually in need of medical attention), but he manages it eventually by pretending to have forgotten something on the way to lunch.

Gaius doesn’t look particularly surprised to see him back there so quickly, and he looks even less surprised when Merlin stands in front of the door fidgeting for a few moments before saying, “There’s nothing here, is there?”

A part of him hopes Gaius will disagree, will counsel patience and encourage him to keep looking, but that part is disappointed; Gaius looks at him tiredly, and shakes his head. “I don’t know, Merlin,” he says. “I’m not saying there isn’t, but with as many people as we’ve had looking, if there was something useful here we’d have found it by now.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

Still, he doesn’t say it, and Gaius gives him another look, one that is far too understanding. “We can keep looking,” he says. “I can’t rule out the possibility that there’s a solution here. You don’t need to call him just yet.”

Merlin nods, because Gaius is right, at least technically. They can’t be certain they won’t find an answer in one of these books, so calling Kilgarrah at this moment in time isn’t an absolute necessity. At the same time, he knows Gaius is only saying it to give Merlin an out, just as he knows that taking it will only do further harm to Camelot, and so Merlin follows his nod with a head shake.

“I think I should, though,” he says; as hard as he found it to forgive Kilgarrah for his attack on Camelot, as little as Merlin trusts the dragon to tell him the truth without trying to manipulate him, he also knows Kilgarrah is bound to obey his every order. If Merlin demands his assistance in breaking the curse, Kilgarrah will help him whether or not he wants to, and that’ll have to be good enough.

“I’ll talk to Arthur after lunch,” Merlin says. “Now that he knows about me, I feel like I ought to warn him before summoning a dragon just outside the city.”

“That would probably be a good idea, yes,” Gaius says dryly.

X

“How’s the search going?” Arthur asks, with the same air of cautious optimism he’s had every other time he’s asked Merlin that question, which is more or less every time Merlin’s seen him over the last couple of weeks.

Unlike the other times, though, Merlin doesn’t try fob him off with half truths like _I think we’re close to something_ or _Gwen found something interesting this morning_. “Not all that well,” he says plainly.

“Oh,” Arthur says after a moment, and the speed at which his face falls makes Merlin wish he’d been a little less plain and a little more tactful.

“We’ve tried, Arthur,” Merlin tells him, more gently this time. “When I say we’ve read pretty much anything we’ve got about magic, I’m really not exaggerating. Unless Gaius or Geoffrey manages to find us a stack of new books to look at, I think we’re probably down to our last option, and it’s not one you’re going to like.”

He pauses, largely to allow Arthur a moment to stare and himself a moment to gather his courage.

“I want to summon the Great Dragon,” Merlin says, trying to pretend he’s not worried about Arthur’s reaction even as he couches it as a request. He doesn’t need Arthur’s blessing, not really, but with a matter as sensitive as this, it’s probably best to let Arthur think Merlin’s here for permission rather than just politeness. “Tonight, if that’s okay?”

As it happens, Arthur’s reaction is about as far as it can be from the spluttered anger Merlin was expecting. “Okay,” he says simply, picking back up the quill he’d put aside when Merlin entered the room, a dismissal if ever Merlin’s seen one.

Embarrassingly, it’s now Merlin’s turn to stare blankly. “Did you hear what I said?”

“You’re summoning the Great Dragon,” Arthur answers, as though it isn’t less than a year since he was yelling at Merlin for not butchering Kilgarrah when he had the chance.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” he asks, though his tone lends a definite edge of _why doesn’t it bother you?_ that feels very much like Merlin is digging his own grave.

Arthur looks up at him again, the shadows under his eyes as large as those under Merlin’s own, exhaustion plain in the lines around his mouth, the way he has to blink a couple of times before his gaze seems to focus properly on Merlin. “It does, Merlin,” he says tiredly, dragging a hand over his face. “That creature slaughtered my people and made a solid attempt at burning down the city after you let it out, so, yes, having you call it back here bothers me. But if you and Gaius and half my knights can’t find anything in all your books, if you think summoning the beast is the best chance we have of keeping Morgana from starving my kingdom to death, that’s what we’re going to do.”

There’s a whole load of things in there that Merlin could reply to, whether it’s defending his and Gaius’ research skills or trying to explain his decision to release Kilgarrah (not justify, not when he knows not even the sincerest of oaths can justify the number of deaths he is responsible for), but when he hears the end of Arthur’s sentence everything else vanishes from his mind.

“We?”

“ _My_ kingdom, Merlin,” Arthur answers. “ _My_ kingdom, _my_ people, and _my_ sister. My responsibility.”

_My secrets_ , Merlin thinks, because the blame for Morgana’s madness is his and his alone. _My lies, my mistakes, and my failure_. He lied to Morgana, left her terrified of her powers, with nowhere and no one to turn to, and then, at the end, rather than tell her the truth and let her make her own choice, Merlin chose poison.

Camelot’s suffering is his fault, his and Uther’s and not even the slightest bit Arthur’s.

“Not just yours,” he says, not with any extra volume but with enough determination that Arthur doesn’t immediately argue with him. “You aren’t the only one who wants to protect them.”

Arthur studies him silently for what feels like hours, even if it can’t actually be longer than a minute, and Merlin can’t quite figure out what it is in his gaze, if Arthur’s judging him or just looking at him. If he’s about to get all angry and possessive over the right to defend his kingdom the same way he gets angry and possessive when Merlin pinches food from his plate or someone tries to take his favourite sword from the rack at training, or if he’s going to laugh, call Merlin an idiot and say that _things really must be dire,_ Mer _lin, if we’re relying on you for protection_.

Eventually, Arthur nods, his expression still serious, coolly assessing, but the argument Merlin was expecting doesn’t happen, nor do the jokes at Merlin’s expense.

“Tonight, you said?” Arthur asks quietly, which Merlin figures is probably the closest he’ll get to Arthur acknowledging his desire and his right to defend Camelot.

“Yes,” he says, matching Arthur for seriousness, but then agreeing to introduce Arthur to the Great Dragon is hardly an occasion for lightness. “Meet me at the western gate two hours after sundown. Unarmed would be best, too, since we’re going to be asking for help.”

“We’ll see, Merlin,” Arthur answers, with a poorly concealed undertone of _not a chance in hell_ , and Merlin resolves to spend at least the next hour rereading every fireproofing spell he’s ever come across.

X

Merlin, Gwaine realises early that afternoon, is Up To Something.

He starts to wonder when Merlin doesn’t put up an argument when Gwaine announces that it’s lunchtime and they _are_ going to take a break, then wonders again when Merlin comes up with a convenient excuse to double back (not that today’s the only time he’s done that, but it is the first time Gwaine hasn’t had to go back and get him quarter of an hour later). He’s almost certain of it when Merlin answers his, “Everything okay?” with a shrug, a vague wave of his hand and a brief smile before going back to chewing his bottom lip in between mouthfuls of broth, is even closer to it when Merlin stays sat at the table for more than a few seconds longer than it takes him to finish eating, when Merlin’s still there when Gwaine and the others have scraped their bowls clean and started to stand up.

“Don’t wait for me,” Merlin says, when half of them show signs of doing just that. “I need to talk to Arthur about something.”

“Merlin,” Gwaine starts, then realises he doesn’t know how to continue.

“It’s fine,” Merlin answers, teeth still gnawing away. “I won’t be long.”

Gwaine looks at him, trying to decide if he wants to insist on going with him. He doesn’t like it, full on hates letting Merlin do anything on his own when he looks that anxious about it, but at the same time it’s only Arthur he’s going to see, which means it’s probably just a progress report, in which case pushing to go with Merlin crosses the line between appropriately concerned and unnecessarily possessive. It smacks of jealousy, of obsessiveness, and Gwaine isn’t that person, has as good as promised Merlin that he won’t be.

“Okay,” he says, squeezing Merlin’s hand before putting both palms on the table and pushing himself to his feet. “We’ll head back to the books, then. See you in a bit.”

“Yeah,” Merlin answers, and the way he’s too busy with whatever he’s thinking to even try to smile is just another sign that Gwaine is right to think it’s suspicious.

True to his word, Merlin isn’t with Arthur all that long; in the time between getting back to the workroom and Merlin joining them, Gwaine has enough time to ask Gaius three times if everything is okay but not enough to actually pester an answer out of him (though, in defence of his epic pestering skills, the lack of an answer is mostly because Leon swats him across the back of the head whenever he talks for more than a few moments).

Gaius stands up the second Merlin enters the room, crossing from the table to the fireplace and hanging the kettle above it. Merlin joins him there, the two of them using the quiet clatter of making tea to cover a rapid series of whispers that Gwaine can’t catch any of no matter how hard he tries.

Merlin floats a line of cups over to the table without looking away from Gaius, somehow finding enough free space in amongst all the books to lower two of them to the table, the rest of them hovering at head height until someone reaches out for them. Gwaine takes his without really thinking about it, shifting the book until it’s half of the table and half in his lap to make room for his drink; three other hands head immediately for the space he’s cleared, and Gwaine lowers his cup quickly, the thunk of pottery against the table too loud and too sudden, hot tea splashing over the sides and onto his hand.

He lets out a hiss that instantly draws Merlin and Gaius from their conversation, and Gwaine mentally kicks himself for it; the noise was more from surprise than the pain he shakes off as easily as he shakes off the spilt tea, and now he’s ruined any chance he has of overhearing anything that might help him figure out what Merlin is up to.

“Careful, Gwaine,” Montague says, smirking, as he puts his mug down a lot more gently. “Might be hot.”

“Twat,” Gwaine answers, raising a slightly scalded middle finger at him. “It’s nothing, Merlin. Go back to your conversation.”

“We were done, I believe,” Gaius says, everything from the eyebrow to the slight edge to his tone to the way Merlin hunches in on himself just a bit suggesting it was less a discussion than it was a very civil argument, and Merlin’s just got himself told off for something.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees wearily, carrying the final cup of tea over by hand and perching on the scant few inches of bench to Gwaine’s right. He seems oblivious to the fact that there’s not really enough room to sit there, and to the careful process of elbowing that Gwaine has to go through to get Lancelot, Montague and Gareth to budge along a bit, too busy rooting around in the piles of books to acknowledge the arm Gwaine wraps around his waist in order to slide him far enough onto the bench that he’s no longer at risk of falling off.

Gwaine leaves his arm there, thumb stroking idly over Merlin’s side, eventually winning himself an absentminded _oh, how long have you been there for?_ smile, which is probably the best he can hope for right now: Merlin has dug his spell book – the only true spell book they have access to, and therefore something Merlin has to have paged through at least once while they’ve been looking for a way to break Morgana’s curse – from the pile and is gazing intently at pages that, judging by the illustrations, seem to have less to do with growing crops than they do with burning them.

So, yeah, Merlin is definitely Up To Something.

X

Merlin – his beautiful, lovely, wonderful and most terribly bad at lying Merlin – studies his book with a level of intensity and dedication that Gwaine finds more than a little unnerving. He’s hardly been idle in his research so far, sticking with huge and dull books even when Gwaine has been reduced to stealing other people’s strength of character just to stay awake, but there’s something frantic to the way his eyes are flicking from one line to the next, something worrying about the fact that while he doesn’t look up from the book more than a handful of times all afternoon, he’s the first one to suggest they go for dinner.

Merlin – his dear, delightful, _devious_ Merlin – smiles innocently in the face of assorted incredulous looks, snapping his book closed and standing up, finally noticing the arm Gwaine’s kept wrapped around him since he sat down hours ago, and only then because it’s falling away. He fails to suppress a tiny squirm as Gwaine accidentally brushes over a particularly ticklish spot on his hip, the same way he always fails to suppress a squirm when Gwaine touches him there (gods, Gwaine _loves_ that spot. On a list of his favourite parts of Merlin, that one easily makes it into the top three. Unless he’s counting Merlin’s mouth, or the curve of Merlin’s neck that seems perfectly shaped for Gwaine to rest his forehead against as he rocks their hips together, his hands, his… Top ten, maybe. Definitely top twenty).

Merlin catches Gwaine’s hand, tugging until Gwaine opts to stand up rather than to risk broken bones thanks to Merlin’s fidgety fingers. “Okay,” he says, because playing along with Merlin’s secret plan is a lot easier than arguing with him, even if playing along means pretending he doesn’t even know there is a secret plan. “Dinner it is, then. Come on, you lot.”

Gwaine finds himself the sudden victim of the same collective incredulity that so recently hit Merlin; rather than pretending not to notice the stares, rather than pretending he hasn’t noticed Merlin being extra bloody weird, Gwaine just shrugs and allows Merlin to lead him towards the door.

“We might as well,” he hears Lancelot say, followed by assorted murmurs of assent, not to mention the scrape and creak of moving furniture as a handful of well-built men stand up (and Gareth, who might have picked up a bit of extra muscle thanks to a far more rigorous training routine than Gwaine put him through back at their mother’s house but is still pretty scrawny compared to the rest of them).

And so they go to dinner, all of them pretending that Merlin (and Arthur, that’s quite clear from the looks he and Merlin keep exchanging throughout the meal, and possibly also Gwen, though she’s hardly the devious type) isn’t quite obviously planning something. It’s easy enough, when they’re all forcing themselves to make light conversation the way they usually do when Merlin isn’t shielding them from unwary ears, but it grates at Gwaine all the same.

Merlin should at least tell _him_ what’s going on.

X

“Back to it, then?” Elyan asks, when the last of them has lowered their cutlery and pushed their empty plate away.

Merlin looks at him, thinking, torn between two unfair options. He’s not planning on telling the truth, not when he’s not even sure Kilgarrah will be able to help – getting their hopes up is just cruel, and even if it weren’t Merlin doesn’t think he has the strength to face the chaos that would ensue if he made his and Arthur’s trip into a group outing – but he also can’t face another couple of hours sitting in Gaius’s room as his friends slog through some of the dullest books ever written and Merlin tries to pretend he hasn’t already given up.

He looks at Arthur somewhat helplessly, even though he’s not at all sure what help he’s hoping to get; Arthur looks about as uneasy about the situation as Merlin feels – though, actually, that could be ill-concealed fear at the thought of facing down Kilgarrah later on.

“Not tonight,” Gwen says, effectively saving Merlin from having to find an answer to Elyan’s question. “After all the work you’ve been putting in lately, I think you probably all deserve a night off.”

Gwen’s words are met with the same air of mild confusion and slight disbelief that greeted Merlin’s earlier suggestion that they break for dinner; Gwen, like Merlin, chooses to ignore this, smiling with such innocence even Merlin wants to believe her.

“Riiight,” Elyan says, as sceptical as the rest of them. “I guess we’ll just have to find something else to do.”

Silent uncertainty reigns over them a little longer, its weight evident in the subtle exchange of glances, barely there frowns, _How far do we push this?_ tilts of the head. Eventually, they all seem to reach the same conclusion – namely, that asking questions won’t get them any answers – because when Percival rolls his shoulders in a really quite impressive shrug and rumbles, “I could do with a drink,” only Gwaine doesn’t stand up.

“Are we going, Merlin?” he asks, the difference between that question and _do you want to come with us_ overwhelmingly apparent in the way he looks at Merlin; clearly, Gwaine intends to stick with Merlin tonight, which isn’t really something he’d planned around, even if he should definitely have seen this coming. Gwaine has more or less attached himself to Merlin since the day he fainted, even when being close to Merlin means volunteering himself for unimaginably dull research and sleeping in Merlin’s tiny, far-less-comfortable-than-Gwaine’s bed, so thinking that tonight might be in any way different is nothing more than stupidity on Merlin’s part.

“You go,” he says, because he loves Gwaine, he honestly, truly does, but the idea of taking him to see Kilgarrah is both insane and pretty much terrifying. For every person Gwaine successfully charms, there’s at least another one who wants him dead or skinned or otherwise made miserable, and Merlin highly doubts Kilgarrah is going to be part of the charmed camp.

On top of that, there’s all the dragon’s cryptic nonsense, riddles about he and Arthur, about coins and destiny and halves made whole, the entire thing so ridiculously suggestive that Merlin would give an awful lot to keep Gwaine from having to hear it.

“Go,” he says again, smiling as believably as he can at Gwaine and the rest of them, because if he’s really lucky he can slip out while Gwaine is still away drinking and be back before he returns, no need to mention the whole meeting with the dragon thing until it’s over and yes, Merlin’s well aware of how terrible a person this makes him. “I kind of feel like an early night.”

“Nah,” Gwaine replies, and even if there’s no sign of his being argumentative, his answering smile is a lot closer to challenging than it is the innocent ones the rest of them have been faking. “I’ll stay in with you. Wouldn’t want to wake you when I get back.”

“You were never that considerate when I was sharing your room,” Gareth huffs, pouting down at the not-drinking group from his place in the quite a bit larger _why haven’t we left all ready?_ lot.

“Pretty sure he didn’t have the same incentive to be considerate then, ‘Reth,” Montague says, enough of a suggestive lilt to it that Merlin feels his face heat a little.

Gareth, on the other hand, looks pretty mystified (though how it’s possible for him to have grown up looking up to Gwaine and yet still be this innocent, Merlin really doesn’t know), and Montague, glancing from Gareth to Merlin to Gwaine and then back again, chuckles. “Come on, kid,” he says lightly. “We’ll fill you in on the way.”

_Oh, please don’t,_ Merlin thinks as the group of them start towards the doors, fighting the urge to hide his face.

Arthur stands up, reaching a hand out to Gwen. He nods at Merlin, a suggestion of _I’ll see you later_ to the gesture; Merlin smiles weakly at him in response, still not sure how he’s going to get to that meeting without Gwaine in tow.

“You’re saying _that’s_ why they’re not coming out with us?” Merlin hears Gareth say just as he reaches the door to the mess hall. His voice is awfully loud, and when combined with the way he cranes his neck to stare back at them, there’s no doubt at all who he’s talking about; Merlin blushes even harder, giving in to the urge to bury his face in his hands, irrationally certain that every single person is staring at him.

There’s a rustle of fabric from somewhere close to him, the creak of the bench as Gwaine stands up, followed not long after by the warmth of his breath on Merlin’s neck. “C’mon, love,” he murmurs. “Sleep in our room tonight, yeah?”

X

“However dumb I might act sometimes, you know I’m not actually stupid, don’t you?” Gwaine says, hopping about inelegantly as he stares at Merlin, trying to get his shoelaces untied without ever looking at his feet.

“Lack of self-preservation aside, I’ve never thought you were, Gwaine,” Merlin answers, so sincere that Gwaine falters a moment; he’s pretty sure everyone he’s ever met has thought he’s an absolute idiot at one point or another, and more than a few of them have been perfectly happy to call him it to his face as well.

“Okay,” he says, allowing himself a moment to regain what little composure he’s ever been capable of around Merlin. “So, you know that I know something’s not right, right?”

Merlin flinches, a full-bodied, physical retreat that has Gwaine feeling almost painfully guilty. “I know,” he says, eyes downcast as he fidgets uneasily, which only makes Gwaine feel worse.

“Okay,” he says again, resigning himself to ignorance; however much he wants to know, to help, his asking clearly isn’t doing anything but making Merlin unhappy and uncomfortable, neither of which Gwaine is at all okay with.

He’s finally managed to yank his second boot off by this point, dropping it somewhere sort of close to the first one and crossing the short distance to where Merlin has settled himself in the chair closest to the fire. His own chair seems much too far away from Merlin’s, particularly when this is the first proper time they’ve had alone in forever, almost no chance of anyone interrupting them, and Gwaine’s tired of spending so much time in contact with Merlin but not actually being able to touch him. Instead, he just flops to the floor at Merlin’s feet, resting his head on Merlin’s knee and wrapping an arm loosely around his leg.

It’s a moment or two before Merlin reacts to this, his hand moving slowly to rest lightly on Gwaine’s head, fingers combing with remarkable care through the tangles Gwaine couldn’t be bothered to do anything about when he washed up quickly after training this morning.

“That’s it?” he asks quietly, the words as gentle as the hand in his hair.

Gwaine twists a little, tilting his head back until he’s able to look up and see Merlin’s face, be sure that Merlin can see his in return. “There a reason it shouldn’t be?”

“I’m just surprised,” Merlin tells him, apparently deciding Gwaine is sincere in his acceptance, or at least being sure enough of it to offer him the start of a smile. “I was expecting you to whinge and moan and generally make a nuisance of yourself until I either told you or finally gave in to the urge to suffocate you in your sleep.”

“And that’s an urge you have often, is it?” Gwaine asks, grinning up at him.

“Don’t worry, it’s only when you speak,” Merlin answers, smiling a lot more vaguely than Gwaine is, though since he’s staring intently at what is apparently a particularly stubborn knot, Gwaine decides he can forgive him.

He doesn’t reply immediately – though not, he’d like to make perfectly clear, because Merlin’s words have terrified him into silence; with the way Merlin’s frowning at his hair, it’s pretty clear moving may result in Gwaine losing a large chunk of hair, and he would very much like that not to happen.

He lets his eyes drift closed as Merlin steadily untangles his hair, letting Merlin tilt his head this way and that as he works, the gentle repetitiveness of it so soothing that Gwaine isn’t entirely sure he doesn’t drift off at some point. It’s warm, he’s surprisingly comfortable sat like this (it’s possible Merlin has something to do with this, because Gwaine’s sure the rag rug in front of the fireplace wasn’t this soft when he bought it), and it seems like, whatever it might be that’s got Merlin neglecting their research, they’re probably not going to be doing anything with any urgency tonight, so there’s really no reason for him to move.

“Come on,” Merlin says after a while, his voice soft enough that it takes a few seconds for Gwaine to actual realise he’s speaking, and that the hand in his hair has fallen still. “Bed, sleepyhead.”

“Not tired,” Gwaine answers, sounding unpleasantly like a petulant (and very tired) toddler, which he isn’t. Not tired, and most definitely not a toddler, and he’s not going to waste his alone time with Merlin by falling asleep. “‘S comfortable enough here, anyway,” he continues, twisting his shoulders a little in order to press closer to Merlin, his hand slipping under the hem of Merlin’s trouser leg to trace his fingertips against his skin.

Merlin leans forwards, his hand moving down Gwaine’s face to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing lightly across his bottom lip. “It’s more fun there,” he says, the brush of his thumb against Gwaine’s mouth teasing, as soft and suggestive as his words.

Gwaine reaches up with the hand that isn’t tracing patterns against Merlin’s ankle, curving it around the back of Merlin’s neck, half to pull himself up and half pulling Merlin down to meet him. The angle is too awkward for him to do anything more than brush their mouths together, lips barely skimming against lips, not so much a kiss as it is the pair of them breathing each other’s air, but then that’s really not all that difficult to fix.

“You disappoint me, Merlin,” he sighs into the end of another not-kiss. “Here I thought we’d been together long enough for you to know fun isn’t bed exclusive.”

Just in case his words and his smile aren’t enough warning for Merlin to figure out what he’s about to do, Gwaine slides his hand up Merlin’s calf to rest behind his knee, applying just enough pressure there and at the back of Merlin’s neck for the difference to be noticeable. He waits until Merlin relaxes before pulling at him properly, toppling Merlin from his chair and onto the floor in an inelegant sprawl that has him landing part next to and part on top of Gwaine, a momentary knock of his knee against Gwaine’s chin and a jabbing elbow in his stomach, both of which sting only for the second or two it takes for Gwaine to get his mouth back on Merlin’s again.

Merlin kisses him slowly at first, sweet and lovely and yes, Gwaine adores him, but he could have had sweet and lovely when they were tucked up in Merlin’s bed with Gaius snoring in the room next door. He’s had nothing but sweet and lovely and chaste for weeks, and right now he wants more than that.

He opens his mouth against Merlin’s, teasing at Merlin’s lips until he follows suit. It’s still slow, but not so much sweet, hot and dragging, drugging, and Gwaine tugs at Merlin, at his shirt and shoulders and sides until Merlin gets the message, flinging a leg over Gwaine’s thighs and pressing close, closer.

The chair, sturdy enough to stay in place when it was supporting only Gwaine’s weight, slides away from them under the addition of Merlin’s not exactly substantial mass, legs screeching unpleasantly against the flagstones. They fall backwards, Merlin’s eyes flashing as they go, and Gwaine lands on a floor so soft they may as well have moved to the bed when Merlin suggested it.

“Knew I kept you around for a reason,” Gwaine says, earning himself a sulky little nose wrinkle that vanishes almost immediately when Gwaine curves his hands over Merlin’s arse, thumbs just barely dipping under the fabric of his trousers.

Merlin shifts one hand from Gwaine’s face, planting it on the rug beside Gwaine’s head and pushing himself up slightly, enough that Gwaine isn’t struggling against his weight each time he tries to breath in. Gwaine wasn’t complaining, not really; breathing is overrated, in his opinion, and the kiss that has only got hotter since they shifted to horizontal is a more than eloquent demonstration that Merlin agrees with him.

Still, the slight distance has its own benefits, because there’s now enough room for Gwaine to slide one hand from Merlin’s arse to fit in between them, making sure to brush against every ticklish spot on the way there (because, gods, the way Merlin squirms feels like a victory even in the most innocuous of situations, and right now there is nothing remotely innocuous about the way Merlin shimmies against him).

Even one-handed, Gwaine manages to make short work of Merlin’s laces, slipping inside for one, two, three quick tugs, just enough for Merlin to break the intensity of their kiss, panting wetly against Gwaine’s mouth.

“Tease,” he murmurs, as Gwaine draws his hand back, scratching lightly at Merlin’s stomach before pulling his own trousers open, wriggling a little until he’s able to push them halfway down his thighs, nothing between his skin and Merlin’s, the two of them rubbing and rutting and _gods_.

“Only teasing if I don’t follow through,” he answers, a tad breathlessly, propping himself up on his elbows in order to chase after Merlin as he sits up a little more. “D’you want-” he asks, the question unfinished, stolen by the way Merlin draws himself fully upright, kneeling astride Gwaine as he pulls his shirt up over his head, firelight flickering over his battle scars, pooling in the hollows of his collarbones, his whole body a map of light and shadows and Gwaine can’t help but stare, no matter how often he’s seen him like this.

Somehow – magic, maybe, or maybe just familiarity, Gwaine isn’t sure – Merlin knows what he’s asking anyway; he smiles, eyes glowing the way they almost always do when they’re together now, pushing his own trousers down and off, one leg then the other, a careful balancing act that ends with Gwaine gazing up at him with the same wondrous adoration he knows he ought to have gotten over by now.

“Want you to,” he answers, biting at his bottom lip as looks down at Gwaine, not quite into his eyes, his apparent shyness in making the request at complete odds with his unabashed nudity and the hand he places on Gwaine’s chest as if to pin him down. “Like this?”

In answer, Gwaine stretches a hand up to Merlin’s waist, skimming it down to his thigh and back again, resting on his hip, feeling and trying not to feel how present the bone there is, and when they’ve solved this, when it’s over and they can stop worrying about making their supplies last, Gwaine’s going to keep Merlin in bed for a week, doing nothing but sleeping and screwing and feeding him all the delicacies they’re doing without until he stops looking and feeling so terribly fragile.

“Like this,” he agrees, letting his hand fall away for now. “Can you get-”

“Here,” Merlin says, over the soft wooden scrape of the drawers opening and the tiny click of the clay jar landing on the flagstones beside them. He has it open before Gwaine can start to reach for it, fingers slicked before Gwaine can say that he wants to do it, wants it slow and hot and impossibly thorough, wants Merlin begging him for more every step along the way.

“Don’t,” Merlin murmurs, as Gwaine shifts his weight to rest more heavily on one arm, freeing the other to help Merlin out, maybe to slow him down a little. There’s something deeper, darker in his eyes for a moment, and Gwaine feels it like a weight on his chest. It’s not so heavy that he can’t move – Merlin wouldn’t do that, not without warning and discussion and endless _are you sure_ s and _say something, stop me, tell me to stop_ beforehand – but it’s heavy enough for him to know it’s there, know that Merlin wants him still and watching and waiting for now. “Let- _ngh_ \- let me, for now just…”

“Slow down, then,” Gwaine answers, because if this is going to be a _don’t touch_ show, he wants it to be one worth watching. “We’ve got time, right, love?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, looking him dead in the eye now as he reaches blindly for the jar with his free hand, stroking a fresh load of salve over Gwaine even as he almost winces at the addition of a third finger. “Don’t want slow,” he says, the words barely making it through the lust-fog that has Gwaine forgetting why he wants to keep arguing. “Want to feel it.”

There’s something else after that, something that might be _remember it_ , but it’s too lost in the way they both groan as Merlin places both hands on Gwaine’s chest, wiping oily stains on the shirt Gwaine had half forgotten he was still wearing and pausing only a second or two to adjust before bearing down too hard, too fast.

Gwaine’s hands fly out, pushing easily through the magical not-quite-bonds to grip Merlin’s hips again, holding him still for a moment he’s pretty sure they both need. “Slow. Down,” he says again, feeling the tremor of too tense muscles in Merlin’s thighs against his forearms, Merlin’s weight atop him, the ferocious intensity of his gaze and the awfully long time it takes for it to calm, clear, for Merlin to relax above and against and around him.

_Talk to me, love_ , he wants to say, wants to beg Merlin to tell him what’s bothering him and if there’s any way he can help to make it better. “Merlin,” he starts quietly, a little ragged, but Merlin’s already falling forwards against him, spine curving impossibly as bends to smother the sentence Gwaine hasn’t even managed to start.

This kiss is soft again, not the sweetness Gwaine is happy to have moved beyond but also not the confusing, near-frantic haste with which Merlin prepared himself. It’s deep and searching, the kind of thorough that Gwaine had wanted, so much so that it hardly matters that he’s on the receiving end of things; by the time Merlin pulls away they’re both gasping and Gwaine’s hands have well and truly forgotten that they’re there to prevent rather than to guide the incremental shift of Merlin’s hips.

“Would…” Merlin asks, the word barely more than a breath as the increments grow, the hands on Gwaine’s chest pressing slightly more heavily each time Merlin lifts himself, and Gwaine isn’t sure when his own hands started to wander, when they left their assigned post in order to trace as much of Merlin’s skin as he can reach.

“Would…?” he echoes, pushing up just a little to meet Merlin the next time he rocks downwards, the warmth he can feel building around them too much for him not to.

Merlin makes a little breathless noise, rolling his hips fully now, properly, nothing incremental about it anymore. “If” – another noise, as Gwaine thrusts harder, swallowing back a groan of his own as he tries to stay quiet enough to hear what Merlin’s question will be – “ If I have to do someth – _ahn_ – something, and you think it isn’t – _gods_ , Gwaine, would – yeah, that, that’s-”

He’s silent a moment, but for the ever quickening breaths and the little whimper-moan-gasps that have Gwaine’s hand moving quicker, trying to repeat the same twist of his wrist and swooshing swipe of his thumb just so that he can hear it again.

“If you think – _ohh_ – that it’s not safe, would you stay behind?”

Gwaine’s moving before he can even think to do so, his other hand planted beside him, enough leverage to push himself off the floor and over as soon as Merlin utters the words _not safe_ , so that by the time Merlin’s got his question out he’s on his back with Gwaine above him.

“No,” Gwaine answers, the single word a growl that rumbles up from his gut without any thought whatsoever, and he should be more mature, more distant, should trust Merlin to know what’s safe and what’s not, but he _isn’t_ and he _doesn’t_. Gwaine trusts him with the life and wellbeing and general, everyday happiness of every person he’s ever met bar one: Merlin can be trusted to try save every single life but his own. If he thinks his death is what it’ll take to save Camelot, Merlin will sacrifice himself without a second thought, and Gwaine’s pretty fucking sure he was put on this earth to keep that from happening.

_“Never_ ,” he says, thrusting hard and fast, lowering his head for a kiss Merlin doesn’t hesitate to return, arms and legs and tendrils of magic twining around Gwaine and showing no sign of ever intending to let him go.

“Never,” he repeats, quieter but no less intense, snapping his hips and kissing Merlin again, if only to keep himself from begging Merlin not to go wherever he’s planning on going, not to put himself in danger, in the name of all that’s beautiful and good and holy not to leave him behind when he goes. “Merlin,” he gasps, soundless and scared and so desperate he feels almost sick with it, burying his face in the crook of Merlin’s neck.

Merlin combs a hand through his hair, the other one fluttering up Gwaine’s back and over his shoulders, as if he can’t decide where to put it, how best to gentle the frenzy his words have set in Gwaine’s mind.

“Merlin,” he says again, breath hitching in the middle of it, halfway to slowing down again, dragging this out until their very bones are humming with pleasure and Merlin is too exhausted and too well fucked to remember his own name, let alone however he intends to put himself in danger. “ _Merlin_ ,” he says, Merlin’s skin smooth under his lips; Gwaine mouths his way along his shoulder, nipping and nosing here and there until he reaches the place where Merlin’s pulse stutters and jumps in his neck, worrying at it until Merlin is a groaning, sobbing mess beneath him, previously fluttering fingers curving around Gwaine’s arse and pulling him down, in, so deep that they both cry out.

“ _There_ ,” Merlin demands, the hand that was in Gwaine’s hair between them now, knuckles digging into Gwaine’s stomach as he pushes into him over and over, doing all he can to obey Merlin’s desperate pleas for, “Again _, harder_ , fuck, Gwaine, _please_.”

“I _love_ you,” Gwaine tells him, each thrust pulling a groan from him and punching this gorgeous, golden, _hungry_ noise from Merlin that he has to smother with kiss after kiss. Usually, he doesn’t care who overhears them, doesn’t care who knows what they’re doing, considers it something close to a matter of pride how much Merlin enjoys this, his body, him, but right now he’s jealous, wanting to keep all of this to himself, unable to bear the idea of sharing even that much of Merlin.

“Again,” Merlin answers, and Gwaine repeats both his words and his movement, not quite sure which it is Merlin is asking for, only knowing that he can’t stop either, not yet.

“I love you, Merlin,” he says, pleasure building within him, coiling hot and tight, twisting and turning and he’s, “Close, love, I’m so… Merlin, are you-?”

Merlin’s hand moves faster, stroking in time with Gwaine’s thrusts and their shallow, shaky breaths. “Yes,” he says, garbled and gasping and, “ _Fuck,_ Gwaine, yes, gods, that’s- _ohhh_.”

He arches up against Gwaine, eyes flaring brighter than ever as he comes, magic sweeping up and over and through Gwaine until it hurts, that blissful, searing, too-much-of-a-good-thing agony that has him locking his jaw to keep down the noise that rises up from somewhere deep, deep inside him. It still escapes him, a fierce, far-too-loud hiss of breath between gritted teeth, but it’s not the howling, hollering bellow it might have been. Gwaine manages just one more thrust before he’s swept away by the ecstasy of it all, and Merlin holds him there, inside, so deep and so tight and so fucking perfect that the whole world could disintegrate around them without Gwaine even noticing.

It’s a long time before his muscles unclench enough for him move, and even then he’s entirely incapable of anything resembling speed. Even the tiniest drag of Merlin’s skin against his sends another shock of pleasure through him, leaves him dizzy and incapable of any thought more complicated than how fucking incredible that just was.

With a lot of mental begging, he finally manages to collect his uncooperative limbs together enough to flop sideways, the stones cool and surprisingly solid under his back as he stares up at the Merlin-stars ( _Are we really calling them that?_ Merlin had asked, the first time Gwaine said that, and the question alone was enough to decide Gwaine on the matter) on the ceiling above them. His lungs seem just as reluctant to function as the rest of him, and it’s with a very breathless laugh that he succeeds in turning his head far enough to the side to looks at Merlin.

“I think you broke me,” he says without energy, without any feeling but the pulses of low-level delight still racing through him.

“If it’s any consolation, I think I broke me too,” Merlin answers, his arm flailing in Gwaine’s general direction, fingers finally bumping Gwaine’s shoulder then just sort of staying there, as limp and useless as Gwaine feels.

More than a few moments pass with nothing but the crackling of the fire and the slowing of their breathing, the slightest swish of fabric against skin as Merlin’s thumb strokes against his arm, and it takes until Gwaine’s conscience starts to get uncomfortable enough with Merlin’s continued silence for him to ask.

“‘S a good broken, though,” he says, trying to sound like it’s casual, just a statement, not really a resurgence of the concern that had him trying to slow Merlin down earlier. It’s not guilt, either, at the way he gave in too easily, the way he let himself lose control, abandoning his compunctions in order to have at Merlin like he could just fuck his way into his confidences. The effort fails miserably, though, because his voice has a very definite tinge of worry and a sharper edge of remorse in it when he very quietly adds, “Right?”

Merlin wriggles his way closer to him, slow and sort of laborious, wincing as his arm slides from the magically softened and warmed rug to the stones Gwaine still finds pleasantly cool. He keeps going, though, until he’s halfway propped against Gwaine’s chest, smiling down at him with such honesty that Gwaine’s worry is mostly allayed before Merlin even says anything.

“Yes,” he answers, his hand soft against Gwaine’s cheek, lips even softer as he leans close enough to skim them against Gwaine’s. “The absolute best kind.”

Smiling, Gwaine musters all his strength in order to wrench the arm not currently weighed down by Merlin from the floor, draping it across Merlin’s shoulder; Merlin brushes another kiss to his jaw in response, then settles against Gwaine’s chest.

After a few minutes, Gwaine has almost stopped being afraid.

X

“Not that cloak,” Gwen says, as Arthur emerges from his wardrobe holding a swathe of pale blue velvet, a little ragged around the hemline but still unmistakably fine. It’s not the sort of cloak anyone outside of the castle would ever wear, the fabric too rich and the colour too light for anyone who has to do his own washing, and Gwen truly has no idea how he’s managed to sneak around the city so often without getting caught.

Arthur turns to look at her, befuddled in a way that has Gwen trying not to look too amused. “What would you suggest, then, Guinevere?” he asks, his tone slightly harsher than usual, but since Gwen can sense the unease he’d probably prefer her to be unaware of, she decides she can let him off.

Gwen smiles as she approaches him, placing a hand on his arm and a kiss on his cheek as she takes the cloak from him, swapping it for a coat that nearly passes for nondescript. It’s almost certainly the closest thing to it that Arthur possesses, at any rate (not that her own wardrobe is a great deal plainer than his is, nowadays), and Gwen fixes him with her sternest look as she holds it out to him.

Arthur turns his back without commenting, his arms held out behind him. Gwen indulges him, sliding the jacket up until she reaches his shoulders, then circling around him to straighten his collar and make sure it lies smoothly over his chest (though it’s quite possible she just wants the excuse to rest her hands there a moment or two).

“Be careful, Arthur,” she says, straightening his collar again before rising up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m always careful,” Arthur answers, not a trace of irony to it. Perhaps if he’d been jesting, she could have sent him off with nothing more than a peck on the cheek and an instruction to wake her up when he returns (in the unlikely event that she even falls asleep while he’s gone), because at least a joke would mean that he was, in his own special way, prepared to face the danger he was potentially about to put himself in. The fact that he’s smiling benevolently down at her, absolutely sincere, has Gwen worried enough to give up on the good intentions she started their marriage with, all her private vows not to nag him or let her personal feelings get in the way of fulfilling the duty they have to their people.

“I’m serious, Arthur,” she says, placing a hand on his forearm even as she lets the other slide from his cheek. “If don’t give me your word that you’ll do exactly as Merlin tells you to out there, I’m not going to stay behind.”

Even if she wasn’t looking at him to see it, Gwen is more than sure she would be able to feel the way he looks her up and down, his gaze the same impersonal assessment she’s seen him give men on the battlefield, enemies and allies alike. It’s oddly flattering, particularly when the look doesn’t end with dismissal, a touch of a smirk to his lips and his eyes drifting on to the next obstacle the way they sometimes does, when he deems an opponent unworthy of his time and energy; there has never been any doubt in her heart that he loves her, but Gwen has on occasion had cause to wonder if he truly respects her, and equal cause to wonder if she truly deserves it.

“Within reason,” Arthur answers, trading terms without a bit of amusement to it, as though this is a negotiation between allies rather than a discussion between husband and wife. There’s no suggestion that he’s disregarding her concern, nor that he’s indulging it now just to ignore it all as soon as he’s out of their bedroom, and where sometimes she thinks she may fall short at the romantic aspects of their marriage, this is something Guinevere is more than certain she knows how to handle.

She takes a step back from him, folding her arms over her chest, and though Gwen doubts she cuts any kind of imposing figure standing there in her nightgown, Arthur’s face still twitches into a frown.

“I’ll have your word before you step one foot out of this bedroom, Arthur Pendragon,” she tells him. “On your honour as a man, a king and my husband, you will do exactly as Merlin tells you to, without question, or not only will I follow you out there and instruct Merlin to find a way to ensure you remain in the citadel, I will also see to it that not even so much as your little toe makes it back inside this room.”

Again, Arthur gives her that look, weighing her up, and while they both know she couldn’t pose a physical threat to him even if she wanted to, it seems a moment under Arthur’s scrutiny is enough for him to believe her both willing and fully capable of following through on this one.

“On my honour as a man, the king, and your husband, I will do what Merlin tells me to this evening, unless I genuinely think doing so poses a danger to one I am sworn to protect,” Arthur says, as much solemnity to it as every other vow she’s heard him make lately. “I can offer you nothing more than that, Guinevere. Do you accept it, or am I to wait here until you’re dressed warmly enough to come with me?”

Gwen smiles at him, satisfied: Arthur’s devotion to his kingdom even at the cost of his own ego was one of the first things that caused her to look past the obnoxious prince at the man underneath, and it would be terribly hypocritical of her to rail against him for it now, particularly when she agrees with him. The safety of their citizens comes first, and if it came down to it Gwen would put herself in the crossfire as readily as Arthur or Merlin or any of the men they surround themselves with, but Arthur has sworn only to endanger himself if he absolutely must.

“It’ll do,” she says, unable to keep from smiling fondly at him. “Off you go.”

He hesitated a moment, looking a little unnerved, as though he’d expected further argument and is surprised that she’s not pushing for more (too much time spent in Merlin’s presence, she thinks; Merlin has always pushed for more than she does). “You _can_ come with us, if you wish, Guinevere,” he says.

“I think Merlin has the situation entirely in hand,” Gwen answers. “He can take care of the dragon, and Gwaine can take care of him, in the highly unlikely event he’ll need assistance for any reason.” She pauses, glancing out the window behind him. “Besides,” she adds quietly, “that is by far the largest rainstorm we’ve seen in months, and I have no desire to follow you and Merlin into the woods on a night like this purely to satisfy your curiosity.”

“I love you,” Arthur answers, beaming down at her, and if Gwen had ever had cause to doubt it, the fact that he’s chosen to openly say it rather than argue that he’s motivated by any reason more substantial than plain nosiness would be enough to convince her.

“I know you do,” Gwen tells him, beaming right back at him when he pouts at her for not repeating the sentiment in return. “I suppose I could even trouble myself to wait up for you, since that’s the case.”

Arthur looks at her, and this time it bears no resemblance to his battlefield assessment. There’s heat to it now, far too much, and nothing remotely impersonal, and Gwen feels a fluttery warmth in her belly, wonders, just maybe, if he’s rethinking his decision to go chase down the dragon just as much as she’s regretting her decision not to argue it with him.

“Go,” she says, before he can kiss her or she can kiss him. “I know it’s Merlin’s job to wait on you, but perhaps it might be nice if you didn’t make him.”

“Today only,” Arthur agrees, still smouldering at her. “And only because it’s you asking.”

“Go,” Gwen says again, and this time he actually listens to her.

X

Gwaine’s eyes are proving remarkably resistant to staying open, so he more feels than sees it when Merlin moves. The air is cool against him in all the places where Merlin’s skin was touching him, and when he reluctantly drags his right eyelid up he can see Merlin shivering as he first sits up and then, wincing slightly, stands up.

“Sorry,” Gwaine rasps, his hand just about cooperating enough to graze Merlin’s ankle as he takes a step towards the washstand.

“Don’t be,” Merlin answers, and although his face seems a hell of a long way from where Gwaine is flopped pathetically on the floor, he’s still pretty sure that’s a smile.

He watches through barely open eyes as Merlin washes, vaguely considering getting up from the floor and following him over there. He ought to, he knows, because he’s sticky and sweaty and will very much regret not cleaning up now when morning rolls around, but before he can muster the energy to do more than think about it Merlin is back.

“Come on, you daft git,” he says, holding a damp wash cloth in one hand as the other reaches out to Gwaine. “Unless you actually want to sleep on the floor?”

_Only if you sleep here with me_ , Gwaine thinks, allowing himself a moment in which he considers taking Merlin’s hand in order to pull him down there with him. He’s already tumbled Merlin to the floor once tonight, though, and the low glow of the fire is highlighting all Merlin’s dips and hollow places again; Gwaine is struck again by how terribly fragile Merlin is, how much quicker to bruise than Gwaine is, so, rather than pulling Merlin down to his level (literally, that is, since at least Arthur would argue that he’s already done so metaphorically) Gwaine forces himself to his feet.

He flops against Merlin when he gets there, partly because he just wants to but a far larger part of it is that he’s genuinely in need of the support. “Merlin,” he gasps, the word feeling heavy on his tongue. He loses track of whatever else he was going to say as Merlin helps him pull his shirt up over his head, throwing it on the floor and dragging the warm (gods, Gwaine has no idea how he was ever even remotely content having lovers without magic) washcloth across Gwaine’s skin.

“I love you,” he says, for what has to be the hundredth time tonight. He presses his lips to Merlin’s throat, feels Merlin shiver against him at the gentle graze of his teeth against the mark he left there earlier, walking Merlin backwards to their bed. Much as he wishes otherwise, he’s not got the energy to do anything more than sleep once they get there, but Merlin’s arms are around him and his neck is right there in front of him, the kind of invitation Gwaine couldn’t turn down even if he was at death’s door.

Merlin laughs, a tired little sound, then slips backwards out of Gwaine’s fairly lax grasp, pausing in his retreat to brush the lightest of kisses to Gwaine’s cheek. His hands press on Gwaine’s shoulders, barely hard enough to be noticeable, but Gwaine’s spent long enough learning Merlin to understand; he sits, not bothering to check he’s actually going to land on the bed, then shuffles far enough over for Merlin to lie down next to him.

Merlin doesn’t lie down, though, instead perching on the very edge of their bed. He tugs the blankets up to Gwaine’s chest, ignoring the _what’re you doing?_ look Gwaine gives him, his expression as uneasy as it was earlier.

“Merlin?” Gwaine asks, the name cutting off halfway through as Merlin leans over, hand curving around the back of Gwaine’s neck as he kisses him, deep and earnest, the same creeping edge of desperation as he brought to their lovemaking. It was strange then, is even stranger now, and Gwaine still has no idea how to make it better, other than to return the kiss with interest, his arms around Merlin, stroking his back as if a gesture as small as that might somehow be enough to calm the frantic beat of Merlin’s heart.

“ _Please_ ,” they say with one voice as the kiss ends, but where Gwaine finishes with a horribly plaintive, “Just tell me what’s wrong,” Merlin looks at him through eyes blazing gold and filled with regret and whispers, “Don’t hate me for this tomorrow.”

“Never,” Gwaine promises through a yawn, and has only a second or two to realise what the _this_ Merlin is worrying about is and be really quite cross about it before sleep claims him.


End file.
